


i promise to be good

by malignantmuses



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: 19th Century, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Cheating, Class Differences, Class Issues, Domestic Disputes, Drama, Falling In Love, Falling Out of Love, Forbidden Love, Heartbreak, Infidelity, M/M, Marriage, Marriage of Convenience, Morally Ambiguous Character, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Poetry, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Suicide Notes, Unhealthy Relationships, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-04-21 21:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14293605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malignantmuses/pseuds/malignantmuses
Summary: “Ah,” Namjoon vocalizes, “I understand. I help you by supporting you, and you help me by… renewing my rusty old inspiration? Is that it?”Yoongi reaches a hand up, and Namjoon’s eyes fall closed as a hand brushes back his hair, rough fingertips gentle against his temple. “Not altogether," he mumbles, and then there's lips pressing to his.





	1. the meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First meetings never go exactly as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're trying to conjure up some aesthetics, just think: dorian gray, but french. you can find a moodboard [here](https://weheartit.com/hopeforsoul/collections/137776060-bts-au-victorian-era-paris-poets).
> 
> the seed for fic was initially planted two years ago, when blood sweat and tears was first released and we got our first taste of a true victorian concept from the boys. it sprouted, however, during my recent rediscovery arthur rimbaud's poetry, and his tumultuous relationship with fellow poet paul verlaine. it is also inspired by various films depicting gay love in the late 19th/early 20th century, specifically wilde (1997), brideshead revisited (2008), and kill your darlings (2013). 
> 
> some notes before you get started:  
> • **ages** \- namjoon's and yoongi's ages have been heavily skewed in this. yoongi is a few months away from turning 18, and namjoon has only just turned 23, making the age gap between them ~4.5 years. please bare this in mind as you move forward.  
>  • **gender** \- i genderflipped jungkook purely for plot purposes, so he is now jungah, and namjoon's present wife.  
>  • **appearances** \- i imagine yoongi looking something like [this](https://data.whicdn.com/images/304631259/original.gif), just scruffier, and namjoon looking something like [this](https://data.whicdn.com/images/292762956/large.jpg), although the military jacket style would have been dated by this period.  
>  • **warnings** \- please be aware of: alcohol abuse, drug use (specifically hashish, aka victorian marijuana), domestic arguments and - eventually - domestic violence. i will put warnings at the beginning of every specific chapter containing said subject matter.
> 
> now, without further ado, i present: the longest fic i've ever written (and the first to be posted on this account!). enjoy, my lovelies, and please do comment/critique as you wish.

 

_3rd of July, 1873_

_At sea_

  
_My dearest friend,_  
  
_I don't know if you will be still in London when this letter arrives to you — yet I want you to know that you must understand, finally, that I absolutely had to go. This violent life, with all of these scenes without any reason other than your whim, can't the hell suit me anymore._  
_  
But, as I loved you immensely (evil be to him who evil thinks) I want to confirm to you that if, in three days, I'm not reconciled with my wife, I will blow my face out. Three days in a hotel, that costs: the reason for my "stinginess" of this afternoon. You should forgive me. If, as it is too probable, I must do that last damned stupid thing, I at least will do it as a good idiot._

_My last thought, my friend, will be for you: you who called out to me all the worse this afternoon, and that I didn't want to join because I had to leave — finally! _

_Do you want that I kiss you as I'm dying?_  
_  
Your poor,_

_Namjoon_

 

♦

 

September 1871

Paris, France

 

The mud tracks that Yoongi trails into the extravagantly-tiled entry hall of the Kim mansion feel like an accomplishment—like the burnt pages of bad poetry he left in the hearth back home, like the paper he watched curl and char and crumble to black ash before his eyes. It was a veering off of one path and onto another—hopefully, this time, onto one that led somewhere.

He ignores the dirty look the butler gives him as he steps past the man and finds himself drawn to the weeping sounds of a piano playing gently from upstairs. The music is romantic, wistful and longing, and he softens, just slightly, suddenly nostalgic.

Perhaps it’s a bit contrary to the rest of his chaotic nature, but Yoongi is rather fond of the piano. He treasures the distant memories he has of playing the instrument in school to kind teachers, or of fond priests letting him have a go at the cathedral organ. He had been good at music, had thought he could create masterpieces, if he could have only set his mind to it. However, there had been no instruments allowed in his home, and no time to play them, so it was a career of his that never came to be, extravagant melodies cast aside for the more rhythmic nature of poetry.

Hearing the instrument now, though, the soft notes permeating through the exorbitantly decorated walls and gold-trimmed doors of this ridiculously bourgeois space, makes him _nauseous_.

He frowns at the cluttered wall panels, absently wondering how many meals all these portraits of someone’s dead ancestors could buy him, and pushes open the door to what looks to be something of an entertaining space. Two women in the corner crowd around a dark, richly decorated piano, backs to Yoongi as he quietly steps in. The walls of this room are similarly decorated to the hallway, portraits of nameless faces and the occasional Romantic landscape hanging from every possible blank space, gold-painted candlesticks bracketing the mantle of an intricately-carved fireplace. The floor is dark and polished, aptly matched with the blackish wood and rich velvets that construct their couches and armchairs. Yoongi feels wildly out of place, plain and dirty in a room full of only refined things.

He clears his throat, and both the women turn at the noise, the younger of the two reflexively reaching down to protect her (Yoongi now realizes) _very_ pregnant belly. He wets his lips nervously. “Morning,” he decides to start, “I’m looking for Namjoon Kim?”

One of the women—the elder one, perhaps nearing forty—blinks in in surprise at him. “Are you Monsieur Min?”

“Yes, that would be me.” He tries to smile in reassurance at the younger girl. She’s rather mousy looking, fine jet black hair pulled up into some kind of maze of braids and curls atop her head, nose cutely hooked. She seems young and skittish. She returns his smile politely, although still shy, gaze quickly dropping to the floor. Yoongi supposes he can’t blame her; the polished wood is probably a welcome break from his own disheveled appearance.

The older woman (presumably the girl’s mother, there's a faint resembles if Yoongi squints) moves forward towards him, arms gently supporting her daughter as they move away from the piano. “Ah—Monsieur Kim is not with you?”

“Evidently not,” he says.

“He went to the station to meet you.”

“Well, he doesn’t know what I look like, now, does he.”

She blinks at him for a moment, before she lets her expression fall into what looks like something of a resigned smile. “Of course. I’m sorry, where are my manners? I am Madame Jeon de Fleurville, Monsieur Kim’s mother-in-law—” she extends out a hand, and Yoongi shakes it with a sturdy grip, “—and this is my daughter… Madame Kim.”

So this was the wife, then. Interesting. He shakes the younger’s hand, gently, the girl truly seeming too delicate for anything firmer. “How- how did you get here from the station?” She finally pipes up, and her voice is delicate. Musical. Knowing the beautiful but boisterous writing of M. Kim, Yoongi is somewhat alarmed the poet picked someone so… delicate, as a spouse. An unlikely match, he’d call it.

“Walked.” He’s looking at Mme. Kim out of due respect as he says it, but it’s her mother that replies.

“That’s quite a distance! Would you perhaps like a wash, to freshen up after your travels?”

He feels his brows tick in annoyance, her disgusted undertone poorly disguised by her polite words. _Gotta wash the dog before you let him in, right?_ He gives the woman a level stare, then looks away towards the window, and states, “No thanks.”

He sees the two give each other a look in his peripheral vision, no doubt at a loss at what to do with him. “Ah- did the servants take your luggage?”

“Luggage?”

Mme. Jeon looks about as confused as Yoongi feels. “...Yes, your luggage. Did you leave it in the hallway? We’d be happy to have it put it away in a room for you—”

“Um,” he starts, inelegantly. “I don’t have any luggage.”

“No… luggage?”

He blinks. “No.”

“Oh.”

Silence again. Deciding to spare them any further torture, he interrupts the still moment by meandering to the window. The Kim household sits on a gentle hill overlooking the sprawling city, and from far enough away, even Yoongi has to admit the view looks quite… quaint. It was certainly a sharp contrast to the filthy streets he just strode through. “Pleasant view,” he remarks.

“Charming, no?”

“Pleasant,” he repeats.

The two exchange uneasy glances in his peripheral vision. “Er—you are even younger than we could have imagined, M. Min! M. Kim and I were quite impressed by your poetry, especially from someone so young.”

He feels his eyes bulge. “He let you read it?” he prods. He ignores the age comment, for now, but even he can’t deny it grates at his nerves just a bit.

“Oh, yes,” he hears in the snotty voice of the mother behind him. Bougie dialects. “I am quite a fan of the Muse.”

Before he has a chance to say something that would no doubt offend at least one person in the room, Mme. Kim speaks up. “How old are you, M. Min? If you don’t mind my asking.”

 _Probably older than you_ , he doesn’t say. “I do,” he says instead.

Mme. Jeon has the decency to look embarrassed as the younger blushes, grasping her daughter’s shoulders and whispering (very audibly, might he add) in her ear, “My darling, it’s not very polite to ask what people’s ages are!”

“I gotta piss,” he states suddenly. They blink at him, shocked. “Where's a guy gotta go?”

 

♦

 

Namjoon is fairly exhausted and, admittedly, disappointed in himself, as he trudges in the doorway of his residence, waving off the butler attempting to prattle something in his ear and instead heading directly for the stairs. He stomps his way to the second floor—vaguely wondering, in the back of his head, where the mud tracks in the hall came from—before he pushes open the door to the lounge to see both women of the house, engaged in something that is quite clearly grating on their nerves, judging by their expressions. He can only hope it has nothing to do with himself as he makes his presence known and the women turn towards him.

He’s sweaty, nervous, as he removes his hat from his head, and he finger-combs through his hair with some amount of dignity before announcing, “I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m afraid I missed him.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mme. Jeon says flatly, her lips pressed tightly together. He cocks his head in confusion, and she gestures to the window, where there is a young man Namjoon somehow hadn't noticed, leaning on the sill and smoking a pipe. He isn’t looking at Namjoon, instead seemingly admiring the scenery outside. “He made his way here just fine.”

Namjoon blinks, the other man turning toward him (he takes a second to absorb the fact he _had_ seen him at the station, he suddenly recalls, but had mistaken him for something of a hoodlum) and is taken aback by how _regal_ the young man looks.

He’s just as dirty and matted as he was down at the station, but here—in a refined lounging space with a pipe held smartly in one hand, dark eyes peering at him through cat-like lids, lips pouting around the mouthpiece, smoke slinking from his mouth—he looks otherworldly, like some kind of dark, ancient nature sprite who has only just dragged himself up through the gutters of Paris to reach sunlight again, and oh, Namjoon could _definitely_ write poetry about him.

“Oh,” he says, breathlessly, still reeling, before shaking himself out of his frozen stupor. The other arches an eyebrow at him, possibly unimpressed, or amused—Namjoon never was the best at reading faces. “Monsieur Min.” He holds out his hand.

The younger smirks and breathes out a lungful of smoke. “Monsieur Kim,” he says, and reaches out to give a firm handshake with calloused hands that Namjoon wasn’t expecting from such a delicate-looking face.

“You… found your own way here,” he states dumbly. “What initiative.”

The other blinks at him, expression unchanging. He doesn’t look very impressed, still, but he _is_ starting to look somewhat amused, no doubt by the complete idiot Namjoon is making of himself.

“Well,” comes a matronly voice from the room, and they both look to find Mme. Jeon with her lips pursed. She looks as if she just ate something sour. “How about Jungah and I go about seeing what can be fixed for dinner, and you two men can chat, hmm? Come on, darling.”

And with that, the two women leave the room, almost in a hurry, and Namjoon has the sinking feeling he missed some rather disastrous introductions. “Well this is…” he starts, none too eloquently. _If only I could speak as fluently as I write_ , he thinks wistfully.

He lifts his gaze back up to meet with the younger’s, and he’s suddenly struck by the fullness of the other’s cheeks, the softness of his skin, a touch greasy beneath his collar—done loose, his ribbon hanging raggled and limp against his shirt. He lets his eyes linger on the hollow of his throat for a moment before lifting them again and clearing his own throat. “I noticed you at the station, but I didn’t think it could be you.”

A handsome smirk fights its way to his lips, briefly. “Likewise.”

“How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

The man (boy?) blinks, smirk dropping. He looks unhappy at the question. “I do. Mind, that is.”

Namjoon exhales, resignedly. “Oh, sorry.”

The other breaks his frosty exterior, here, though, snorting out a short laugh at Namjoon’s fluster. The crooked smile Namjoon had caught him wearing at the train station is back, revealing a gummy row of cute white teeth, and it makes the boy look younger. It's endearing. “You're cute, M. Kim. And I’m nearly eighteen.”

Namjoon nearly chokes at the number, the inappropriateness of the first comment going completely unnoticed. “Eighteen? Are you sure?” He was fairly sure the man had said he was twenty-two, in his letters.

There’s a soft inhale of his pipe, then a silver puff of smoke as he speaks. “Of course I’m sure.”

“I—of course, sorry. Would you like to sit down, M. Min? You must be tired.” He backs away from the other and gestures to a stiff armchair, letting himself sink back in a velvet couch as he leans his cane against the table. The other shrugs, but takes his offer, slouching back into the taught upholstery. “Forgive me for the rudeness, but—it’s just that you said that you were twenty-two, in your letters.”

The boy sighs, reaching his arm out to tap his pipe rather loudly on the side table, jostling loose the crushed leaves inside and emptying it into the ashtray they kept there. “M. Kim, you’ll never want to believe what I say in my letters. Or in any of my writing, for that matter.”

Namjoon frowns. “Yoongi, those poems you sent me are _remarkable—_ for someone of twenty-two,” he starts, articulating clearly. “For someone of eighteen, they’re _unprecedented_.”

“Precisely why I wasn’t forward about my age,” the boy answers smoothly. His voice is oddly low for both his face and his age—a quiet, pleasant rumble. “I didn’t want you to feel patronizing before you’d read them.”

“Of course, I see.” At this rate, his vocabulary is going to be reduced to a jumbled collection of apologies by the end of the night. He isn’t quite sure why he wants so badly to please the younger; he’s a mannerless farm boy without a penny to his name. By comparison, Namjoon has the world in the palm of his hands. “Of course, yes, it all makes sense now. I suppose you’ve left school, then? Temporarily, at least?”

A nod from the younger, then a look out the window. Namjoon’s gaze is immediately drawn to his jawline and the gentle slope of his nose, the attractive pout of his mouth...

—he’s got to stop getting distracted. “That would be correct.”

Ah, so he’s dealing with a barely-of-age dropout. Wonderful. “I see. I hope your mother isn’t too mad at me,” he expresses truthfully.

“Oh, not at all.” Yoongi picks up his pipe from the table again and begins toying with it, turning it between his fingers with surprising elegance as he gazes out the window. “In fact, she seemed quite happy when she found out you had sent me the fare.” He looks up at Namjoon from under his lashes, again, and Namjoon really isn’t prepared for it, gaze suddenly locked with the younger’s coal-black irises. “She was hoping you’d help build something of a literary career for me in these stuffy academic circles… she admires your work greatly, you know.”

“That is very kind of your mother,” he replies levelly, trying to keep his expression pleasant instead of weirdly intense. “I hope I can do your work justice and get you some well-earned recognition.”

He’s rewarded with a throaty sound and another roll of the eyes. The pipe is still turning in his hands. There’s dirt embedded in his fingernails, and he smells strongly of tobacco.

Namjoon thinks he’s beautiful, in a rough sort of way.

“Thank you, M. Kim, but do not burden yourself. I do not care for recognition.” The pipe stills in his hand, then he looks directly at Namjoon, smiling softly. It's maybe the first genuine expression Namjoon’s seen him wear. “Just some guidance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter two will likely be posted in a week and a half or so. i wanted to gauge the general interest in this first, so if you made it this far and you're interested please kudos and/or comment!


	2. dinner / departing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namjoon and Yoongi get to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! a little later than i had hoped to be, but i am baaaaaaack with another installment of this exciting saga. things are still moving a little slow as yoongi and namjoon are getting to know each other, but it'll pick up soon enough. ;)
> 
> also!!! in all of my excitement to get the first chapter posted, i somehow forgot to mention that i made not one, but two playlists for this fic!! here's [one](https://8tracks.com/hopeforsoul/ma-boheme-paris#smart_id=dj:14876539) and [two](https://8tracks.com/hopeforsoul/ma-boheme-brussels#smart_id=dj:14876539). let me know what you think!!!

♦

 

September 1871

Paris, France

 

The clink of cutlery against porcelain plates is going to be the last thing Namjoon hears on this Godforsaken earth before he ultimately goes insane.

Yoongi is tearing through his second chicken leg of the night like a boy starved, ignoring the fork still to the side of his plate and digging into the meat with his fingers. Grease coats his fingertips and the corners of his mouth as he carries on, uncaring of the mess. And Namjoon understands the boy is poor, and from a small border town; he would, naturally, be unaccustomed to the thousand pointless rules of social etiquette that aristocratic circles have been taught to maintain. That doesn't mean the awkward, pointed quiet that surrounds the boy at the table is anything less than truly unbearable.

Jungah’s mother finally seems to decide enough awkward silence is enough, however, to Namjoon’s relief, and clears her throat with purpose. “You… you come from the Ardennes, don’t you, M. Min? Charleville?”

Yoongi nods, wiping his hands on the cloth napkin provided for him, _finally_. “Yes,” he answers curtly.

“Pleasant town, Charleville, isn’t it?”

Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut like they’ve been open for too long, before blinking them back open, sleepily, hand digging into his jacket pocket for his pipe again, and a match to light it. Namjoon resists the urge to lean forward and light it for him when the boy struggles to strike it at first. “Last place on God’s good earth,” he grunts around the bit, finally lighting the chamber. He waves out the match and drops it to his plate.

“And what does your father do?” Jungah pipes up from Namjoon’s other side, not lifting her gaze from her food as she cuts at it daintily.

“Drinks, mostly, I believe,” Yoongi answers bluntly, smoke falling from his mouth as he speaks. Namjoon looks back at him, chewing silently and electing not to comment. “We haven’t seen him in ten years.”

Jungah looks down, flustered, a soft red dusting her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to be,” he reassures, head tilted as he pulls the pipe away to address her properly. “He’s very well out of it.” He brings the mouthpiece back to his lips and inhales, noisily: two quick puffs of his poison. He’s handsome as he does so, cheeks hollowed and eyes focused on his pipe, and Namjoon can’t help but stare, enamored.

 

♦

 

Jungah’s husband is so focused on the other poet that he clearly misses the uneasy way his own wife looks between the two of them, feeling as if she’s catching onto something she doesn’t like. And although M. Min _seems_ kind, in a certain way, she _doesn’t_ like him _—_ doesn’t like the way Namjoon looks at him, like they’re laughing at some kind of inside joke together, doesn’t like the intent way the younger poet meets her husband’s eyes.

Not wanting the moment to hover, she speaks up. “Perhaps you’d like to read us something after dinner?”

The boy doesn’t even bother to look at her as he answers, eyes still locked with her husband’s. Namjoon is blinking owlishly at him, too stark a contrast against Yoongi’s cat-like gaze, and Jungah can’t figure out if the other is simply a naturally seductive being or if he’s purposefully being disruptive about it. “No,” he finally says, eyes still locked with her husband’s. Soft smoke seeps from his lips. “I don’t think so.”

Her mother pats her arm reassuringly. “M. Min’s probably tired, dear.”

“No, that’s not it,” he cuts in before Jungah even has time to feel embarrassed. He drags his gaze over to her, instead, eyes level and face lacking any semblance of the kindness it had held back in the living room. Perhaps he was getting annoyed with her. “I rarely read out my poetry.”

Jungah feels her brow furrowing before she can stop it. “Why not? All the other poets do.”

“Well,” he grinds out, “I’m not interested in what all the other poets do.”

Quiet.

It was a horribly snarky remark, for a guest, and Jungah can't believe he gave her lip in her own _house_ , but she's not equipped to reply to it, unfamiliar with being challenged.

Namjoon exhales loudly, interrupting the moment, and finally lets his gaze fall back to his plate as he prods awkwardly at his food. “Don’t you think poets can learn from one another?”

“Hmm,” Yoongi hums thoughtfully, eyes lifting towards the ceiling as he meditates on the question for a moment. “Sometimes.” He lets his eyes fall back to Namjoon, expression piercing. “Only if they’re bad poets.”

Jungah doesn’t miss the not-so-subtle jab, and frowns openly at the other, upset by his blatant rudeness. Namjoon looks flustered, eyes dropping back down to his plate, seemingly deciding he needn’t contribute anymore for the evening.

“I’m sure you’d enjoy our soirees,” she belatedly reassures, swallowing down the awkwardness of the last hour and her own irritation as she returns to her food. “We had a lovely one last week. Poetry and music. Musset and Chopin.”

Min frowns. “Musset?”

“Yes,” Jungah plows forward, “Don’t you like Musset? He’s my favorite poet. After Namjoon, of course.”

“No,” M. Min answers, seriously. “No, I do not. I rather find him to be the most objectionable and the least talented of this century.” He lowers his gaze to his plate and picks at one of the bones he left scattered there. “He’s rather outdated, now, too.”

“I disagree,” her mother finally cuts in. Yoongi tears his eyes over to her. “I find his work charming. Naturally to the young, he must seem ancient, but then the young must always be revolutionary, mustn’t they?”

“Indeed,” M. Min agrees, “we must.”

“Your opinions are quite firm,” Namjoon finally comments.

“Shouldn’t they be?” the boy rebutes. No one quite knows how to follow him up, so the table lapses back into silence. Jungah doesn’t take her eyes off Yoongi, though, set on trying to puzzle him out as he meets her gaze over the rim of his wine glass.

“You’re not quite how I expected,” she says simply.

He laughs, then downs the rest of his wine in one go. “People rarely are, Madame Kim,” he says fairly, wine glass hitting the table a little harder than it was probably designed to. The poet flicks his eyes to Namjoon, who’s caught in the act of staring and immediately return his gaze to his plate, blinking rapidly. “Even if you’re close to someone, even if you’ve known them for years,” he says vaguely, eyes on the older poet. “No one’s ever quite how you expect them.”

 

♦

 

Yoongi glares at the rather extravagant crucifix propped on the mantle of the fireplace.

The crosses that had existed in his own home had been modest ones _—_ crooked wooden ones nailed to the wall, tiny copper ones hanging from necklaces, the single ivory one they had on a rosary that stayed looped above the baby’s crib, for protection. They had been _functional_ , not fashionable _—_ for practice, not performance.

“Why are you living in the Jeon household,” he asks the quiet soul behind him, “if you’re the husband?”

“Oh,” he hears, and he turns to see Namjoon sigh and lean over the arm of the chair to set aside the notebook he had been flipping through. “Well _—_ I had an apartment, on the Quai de la Tournelle, when I first married Jungah, and was still working. But then there was all the political upheaval, and as I had been in the Commune, it made things difficult. I could no longer work, and could no longer afford the apartment, so Jungah’s father generously offered us a floor of this house. I thought it might be a good idea, Jungah being pregnant and everything. I didn’t want to compromise her lifestyle. Otherwise I would have figured something out.”

The younger reaches out and plucks the crucifix from is haughty throne. It’s heavy, and he tosses the weight in his hands, testing it. He turns back towards the elder. “What kind of person is M. Jeon?”

“Oh, don’t get me _started_ ,” Namjoon groans, throwing his arm of his eyes, and Yoongi grins at his theatrics. Namjoon’s charming, in a goofy sort of way, when he wants to be. “He’s quite the loathsome father-in-law. Fortunately for you, he’s away at the moment. At some shooting party or another. Where I sincerely hope he will meet with a fatal accident. My daily devotions are entirely directed to that end.”

Yoongi huffs a laugh at that, glad the callous poet he knew in writing was finally breaching the surface of this timidly-constructed aristocratic front. “What does he do?” he asks, setting the grossly decorated cross down on the reading table between them as he takes a seat.

“Nothing!” Namjoon exclaims, throwing his arm out. “He is a man of leisure who does absolutely _nothing_. He’s the most pointless person I know. His sole purpose in life is to die and leave me all his money.”

“Kill him,” he comments dryly. Namjoon gives him a look of alarm. “Oh, I’m _joking_.”

“I’m afraid I can never be quite sure with you,” he hears the older observe. “You’re quite unpredictable. It quite alarmed my wife at the table, earlier, your, um. Brazenness.” He hears rustling, and turns to find Namjoon looking at him, thoughtful and devastatingly handsome. “What do you think of her? My wife, I mean.”

Yoongi shrugs. “I don’t know. What do _you_ think of her?”

Namjoon’s gaze lifts at this, an expression somewhere between dreamy and thoughtful on his face, no doubt imagining her at the very moment. Yoongi is already regretting asking, generally bored by the young and in love.“I love her. She’s ideal. Seventeen, rich, beautiful, all the wifely virtues, and she’s about to give me a baby.” He sighs here, eyes dropping to the fireplace. The flames reflect eerily in his pupils, and in the moment he looks strangely demonic. “It’s just that, living with her parents has had a bad effect on her. And the pregnancy, you know, it’s hard. She’s only a child.” Yoongi hums, hand falling to the crucifix again, fingers delicately wrapping around its base. _Yeah, she is_ , he thinks.

He finds himself disappointed, suddenly, upset that this poet, whom he had looked up to, is just like all other men—shallow, self-absorbed, and manipulative, lacking any sort of understanding of true love.

Yoongi drags his eyes from the offensive object to the elder’s eyes. “As am I,” he reminds the other, and tips the cross over, the ceramic falling to the ground and shattering into pieces between them.

 

♦

 

Namjoon frowns after the younger as he disappears into the hallway, too quick for the elder to even call after him, before he lowers his gaze to the shattered remains of the ceramic cross now scattered across the wood floor. Just another mess for him to clean up.

Monsieur Min himself, though… the poet was not at all as Namjoon had imagined him. In his letters he had seemed eager and well-educated, a fairly modest boy, almost _shy_ when asked by Namjoon to send over more of his work. In person, however, the poet seemed to embody the opposite traits—bored and uncivil, arrogant and dismissive of anyone’s opinions but his own. It was even more disarming when paired with his appearance, face young and cherubic despite the ever-present judgemental expression and knowing eyes.

Namjoon was absolutely _enchanted_.

Truthfully, the younger poet made Namjoon suddenly want more from himself; he was only twenty-three, _barely_ out of his youth, and he was already settling down for retirement now that the revolution had come to a rest? And with the Paris Commune beaten back into hiding, he had been perfectly content with such a fate, too—until Yoongi came along.

Now, he just wasn’t so sure.

 

♦

 

“Who are _you?_ ”

The harsh voice startles Yoongi out of his doze, book falling from his hand. A collection of Baudelaire’s work hits the wood floor with little ceremony.

He looks up to find an imposing figure in the doorway, glaring at him. “Uh—I might ask you the same thing, except I’d be more polite about it,” he grumbles, moody now that his sleep has been interrupted. Although he supposes it’s better that he sleep in the actual bed the Kims provided him with, and not in a stiff arm chair in the Monsieur’s library, but he found he couldn't help himself, drawn to the mass of literature and all the prettily bound books.

The man in the doorway doesn’t look amused. He looks rather angry, in fact. He puffs up his chest before he continues: “I am Monsieur Jeon de Fleurville. This is my house.”

Oh.

“Oh,” he says, and drags himself to his feet, rubbing his arm sheepishly. “I don’t suppose you’ve been informed that I’ve been invited to stay here for a while.”

The man slams his fist against the doorway and Yoongi flinches, alarmed by the unsolicited show of violence. “Are you one of that _Kim_ imbecile’s miserable friends?”

Yoongi blinks rapidly. “Am I what?”

“Did... _Namjoon_ invite you here?”

“Um, yes. As a matter of fact he did. I had been informed that you had graciously allowed him to treat this floor of your household as his home—”

“Not for much longer,” the man fumes. His face is growing increasingly red, and Yoongi shrinks. “I want you out of this house immediately.”

“B-but, sir, it's—”

“Get _out!”_ the man screams, and all it takes is one more hard slam against the wall, the bookshelves quaking dangerously, for Yoongi to squeak and slip past him, survival instincts overwhelming any desire to stay in the house and sway Namjoon to mentor him. He’s had enough brushes with angry men of varying authority in his lifetime to know when to tame his tongue.

 _So much for Namjoon Kim_ , he thinks bitterly as he storms into the hallway. The man was a classic Romantic, and surprisingly young, but ultimately pathetic, living in thinly-veiled fear of his father-in-law and blindly devoted to his complete child of a bride for all the wrong reasons.

Yoongi can't help feeling let down; he had been expecting _more_ , had been expecting someone as brash as the banter he put to paper, someone with a dry sense of humor and a nonchalance for authority. Finding out otherwise made him want to be cruel, somehow—made him want to make the poet’s life difficult, to push Namjoon until he pushed back and finally became the man Yoongi knew he could be—the man he knew he once _was_.

Just not today.

Disappointed, the poet grabs his coat and exits into the pouring rain. He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoongi's stay at the kims' wasn't very long, was it? lol
> 
> once again, comments and kudos (and criticism!!) a thousand times appreciated!!


	3. of marriage (and other unpleasant things)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namjoon tracks down Yoongi and realizes some uncomfortable truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whewww, it's been a while, sorry guys. i meant to get this posted earlier, but i didn't take into account how busy this week would be for me (my lease ends next saturday,so i've been busy packing, and then i'm moving down to cali for my new job !) so this update got pushed back a few days. but worry not! for it is finally here.  
>   
> again, comments/critique/kudos will be rewarded with much love - a million thanks to the folks that have commented and given kudos already. i hope y'all like this!! oh and btw - happy pride!
> 
> warning: this chapter contains domestic arguments.

♦

 

September 1871

Paris, France

 

“Listen,” Namjoon starts with some attempt at finality, hating how his words are already slurring. He’s painfully aware of it, but he lacks total muscle control over his tongue at this point of intoxication, even if his thinking is still fairly sharp. Jungah always _had_ warned him not to drink too late in the evening.

The woman is rolling her eyes as she struggles into bed, and Namjoon watches, purposefully not assisting her and telling himself it’s to make a point. “All I’m saying is, if he goes, I go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she argues, frowning at the duvet.

“We can’t just put him out in the street,”  he argues. “How would he live?”

“Did you even _see_ what he was like at dinner? My father—he will _not_ tolerate that. None of it! It’s only a matter of time, Joon—I have nothing against him, _really_ , but he’s too unpredictable. Wouldn’t it be more sensible to have one of your friends give him a room, just for a while?”

Namjoon only shakes his head miserably, mourning his circumstances. He can’t help being dramatic sometimes—he’s a writer, he supposes it’s only natural. “No,” he sighs, “People don’t understand him. They won’t put up with him.”

“Well,” Jungah huffs, crossing her arms. “Daddy certainly won’t _understand him_ , I can tell you that.”

At the mention of the man, Namjoon groans, thrusting his hands into his hair in frustration. “I’m tired of being ordered around by that old bastard. He has no sympathy at _all_ for my circumstances. None of you seem to realize we had a _revolution_ this year, which, by the way, _I supported!_ I could’ve been _shot!_ If I hadn’t been _thrown out_ of my job, do you really think I would have accepted any of his goddamn charity?”

He suddenly realizes he’s standing, having no recollection of getting up, and breathing harshly, chest heaving. Jungah’s recoiled from his outburst, tugging the duvet up to her chest. “Well… n-no, but I—”

“Listen,” he interrupts, “I’ve been very tolerant of him. But I’m putting my foot down on this.” He sighs, exhausted from his own outburst, and drops down, rather dramatically, back into the armchair he had risen from. “Yoongi and his work… it's—it’s _important_ to me. My decision is final. Is that clear?” He rolls his head over to make eye contact.

“Crystal,” she whispers to her duvet, and—oh, damn it all.

Namjoon pinches at the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he apologizes, “I didn’t mean to freak out like that. I’ve just—I’ve had enough of your father, really, I’m at the end of my rope.” He groans, and heaves himself up from the chair, moving to kneel at the side of the bed and gather her hand in his. Her eyes are a little teary, but she’s doing a decent job of hiding it. “It's nothing to do with you. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says, and smiles at him, weakly.

The poet thinks that’s the end of it, then, entirely ready to undress and collapse into bed due to the exhausting day, but just then the door is thrown open and Jungah’s father strides into the room, _furious_.

Namjoon scrambles at the intrusion, caught off guard, his slight intoxication making him clumsy as he fumbles for the edge of the bed to sit down. Jungah adjusts her legs to accommodate him and clasps his hand in hers. Namjoon appreciates the solidarity.

“Since _when_ ,” M. Jeon growls at him, “have you had the right to invite people into this house _without my permission_?”

“If I can’t host a guest in my own home,” he bites, “I might as well live somewhere else.”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so _idle_ , you could afford to,” the man huffs, puffing out his chest. Namjoon wants to roll his eyes so far back in his head he sees black.

“You know _very well_ that ever since the Commune—”

“Oh, any excuse will do, won’t it, M. Kim?”

“Well I don’t see _you_ working your fingers to the bone, do I?”

“Namjoon!” Jungah hisses frantically, tugging at his sleeve. “ _Don’t_.”

Namjoon deflates as best he can, letting himself fall silent, but not lifting his glare from his father-in-law.

Christ. This is what his life has come to.

Jeon seems to deflate a bit as well, trying to smooth his ruffled feathers. “The next time you see that _hooligan_ ,” he grinds out, “kindly ask him to replace the objects he’s pilfered.”

Namjoon’s brow twitches. “What are you talking about.”

“Oh, he’ll know.” He straightens his jacket and turns as if to leave, but Namjoon interrupts, feeling rebellious.

“Ask him yourself!”

“I’m happy to say he’s _left the house!_ ”

Namjoon’s heart skips a beat.

“ _WHAT?”_

He tears his arm away from Jungah’s, rushing to the doorway to grab his jacket and scarf from their hooks, the fabric stubbornly uncooperative in his shaking hands as he wrestles with the articles.

“Namjoon, _please_ don’t go, you can’t possibly know where—”

“If I don’t go now,” he breathes, struggling to shrug on his jacket, “I may never find him again, Jungah.” He feels terrible for leaving his wife with her pissed-as-all-hell father, but he’ll deal with the consequences later. She, at least, has an entire life’s worth of experience dealing with the man; _he’s_ still figuring out the intricacies of it all.

Suddenly moved, he turns back to her father. “Oh, and _by the way_ —if you’re willing to throw that child onto the _street_ without a goddamn _penny_ , you don’t deserve to have Christ hanging all over your walls. I’m glad he broke that stupid crucifix,” he hisses, and storms out the door.

 

♦

 

Somehow, he finds him.

The boy is curled up in his coat, leaning against an alley wall and shivering, jet-black hair dripping wet and depositing fat, shining droplets onto the curve of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. His fingertips and knuckles are pink from the cold, as are his nose and the tips of his ears. He looks like someone’s china doll—pale, and pink in odd places.

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” he breathes, clasping a hand on his shoulder. His coat is thoroughly soaked through, and the younger blearily tears his eyes open, blinking up at him confusedly. He looks incredibly young like this—fifteen, sixteen, maybe. “I thought I would never find you,” he pants, “I don’t know what that bastard thought he was doing, kicking you out on the street like this.”

Yoongi shivers. “It-it’s his h-house,” he stutters through chattering teeth.

Well. Namjoon supposes that is a fair point. “Yes, well. Let’s not worry about it. Come on, up.” He helps the younger get to his feet and claps him supportively on the shoulder, rubbing it in the hopes of getting his blood running again. “We’ll find you somewhere.”

 

♦

 

“I’m afraid it’s not much,” Namjoon admits a while later. “Just for a few days.”

They’re in the attic of Hoseok Jung—a dear friend of Namjoon’s from his Commune days and a fellow poet—in one extra room in the loft that isn’t currently being occupied by the help. It’s in rather torrid shape, mostly serving as something of a storage space for moth-eaten furniture and some impressive cobwebs, but it’s better than no roof at all.

Yoongi doesn’t comment on the space, simply strides forward and rights a table—a writing desk, now that Namjoon looks properly—that had been lying on its top. He brushes the cobwebs off of it and moves a candlestick that had been knocked wayward onto the ground back onto the desk’s dusty surface. Then he turns, brushing past Namjoon again, and does the same with a chair that was in suitable enough shape, setting it down neatly and tucking it under the desk. The bed behind him is still unmade, a stack of clean sheets left on the mattress by one of Hoseok’s servants, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it yet. “It’s fine,” he reassures.

 

♦

 

“So,” Yoongi starts conversationally, an hour or so later. He’s stripped of his wet clothes and kneeling next to the tiny, rusting excuse for an iron stove, huddled under a thick wool blanket Hoseok had provided with nothing but kind words and a blinding smile. “Do you love her?”

Namjoon’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed as he toes a particularly squeaky floorboard. “Hmm?”

The younger gives him a look, like he knows Namjoon’s only pretending not to hear. “You heard me.”

“Of course,” he says mindlessly, but Yoongi only raises an eyebrow. He sighs. “Oh, I don’t know. Truthfully I didn’t think it really mattered who I married. I thought anyone would do. Anyone within reason.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes and sticks his fingers into the flame of one of the many candles he had surrounding him, not looking at Namjoon. “Well, that’s silly,” he says to the tiny flame. “Honestly, I don’t know why you wanted to get married in the first place. The whole gig sounds miserable to me.”

Namjoon groans, rubbing at his forehead. “I don’t know, I was tired of it all. Of the fighting, the upheaval... I just wanted to settle down, find a nice girl, live a quiet life.” He pauses, meditative. “It started innocently enough. I had actually gone to go see Hoseok, you see, who was doing the music for a farce I was going to write, and... as he was showing me to his room, we passed the main room, you know, on the main floor there. And his sister, she had a friend over. And there she was, standing with her back to us, looking out of the window.” Yoongi looks up at this. “I think we startled her, because she turned around very quickly. I was stunned, she was so... ethereal. She was wearing this—this green and gray dress, you know... and she stood in the window with the sun going down behind her. Hoseok introduced us, said, had I met his sister, or her friend, and I said no, I hadn’t. So he introduced me and said I was a poet and she smiled and said how nice, she was very fond of poets. And that was it. She was perfect.

“I wrote to her father and told him how we met, how I wanted to marry Jungah. I thought she was ideal. Plenty of money. Well enough to have all the wifely virtues and what not. Respectable. Kind. Beautiful. She would look after me.”

“Women don’t exist to be your nannies,” Yoongi points out.

“I was lonely,” he snaps defensively. “And she liked me too. We got along well.”

The younger moves his hand so the flame of the candle tickles his palm, fingers caging down around it. “Is there a reason for the past tense?”

Namjoon shifts uncomfortably. “It’s different now. We live with her parents.”

“Do you two have anything in common?”

He thinks for a moment. Did they? “Not really. She enjoys reading poetry, I suppose, but she doesn’t write. She prefers to sing. She’s an excellent singer.”

“Is she intelligent?”

Namjoon laughs, and then immediately stops, feeling mean. “No, I’m afraid not terribly. Not in the academic sense, at least.”

Yoongi frowns, shivering, and lifts his hand to pull the corners of the blanket closer into himself. His collarbones look bare and cold, like this, still shiny with moisture. “Then... does she understand you?”

This time, the older frowns. He inhales, hesitant to answer. “...No.”

“So... the only thing she can give you is sex.”

The reality of the statement hits Namjoon like a brick. “It’s not like that,” he denies, but his heart’s not in it.

“That’s sure what it sounds like,” the younger mutters darkly. “Christ, couldn’t you have found anyone else? Did you have to _marry_ the poor girl?”

“I,” Namjoon starts, swallows. “I thought that’s what I wanted. Marriage. A quiet life.”

Yoongi just sighs and adjusts the blanket, letting his head lean back against the wall as he continues to stare down his nose at him. Namjoon feels as if the other is seeing straight through him.

“Well, you got it,” he says bitterly. Namjoon can't argue with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoongi: only seventeen and already tearing apart marriage from the inside out. whatta guy.
> 
> please comment/critique!! much love to y'all. <3


	4. death of the romantic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namjoon and Yoongi ponder love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so ummmmmmm i'm sorry? lmao i truly didn't mean to leave you guys for so long, but i underestimated exactly how consuming work was gonna be these first few weeks. the only reason i made time to post this now is because my boss is away on a trip this week, and consequently my hours are a bit more flexible. but do not fret! i have a double update for you guys to hopefully make up a bit for the lost time.
> 
> i've been reading a lot of hemingway lately, so i tried to incorporate some of his journalistic style into my writing because it's really a joy to read. but let me know if you guys think this style is a good direction or not—i like it, but i've been wondering if i should lay back on the dialogue and be more descriptive instead. it's always been a difficult thing to balance well.
> 
> also, this story is a reeeeeeeeeeeally slow build, so i'm sorry for what's essentially another filler chapter, but it's really the last of the scene-setting for this story. things finally come to a head the next chapter, so hopefully that will quench your thirst for a little while.
> 
> lastly, to those of you who have been commenting—thank you SO MUCH. y'all don't know how much it means to me to hear what you guys have to say. it keeps me motivated. happy summer, everyone.
> 
> warning: this chapter contains domestic arguments and (dated) misogynistic language.

♦

 

September 1871

Paris, France

 

“You know about this?” Namjoon questions him, a few days later, in a crowded tavern, tapping his glass full of one of his favorite poisons.

Yoongi has his eyes fixed on the brilliant green the drink nearly glows with. “I know what it is,” he mumbles. He’s curious, though, Namjoon can tell, anxious to try whatever chemically altered state that could enhance his writing.

He smiles at him. “It's the poet’s third eye,” he says somewhat cryptically. “Absinthe.”

Yoongi sips at the drink, eyeing him over the glass as he does so. His cheeks are flushed—whether from the heat of the cramped space, or the burn of the alcohol they’d been consuming, Namjoon can't tell—but he looks awfully pretty with his rosy cheeks pressed to the rim of his glass, dark eyes glittering up at him.

“You’re beautiful,” he blurts, and promptly claps a hand over his mouth, mortified.

Yoongi sputters out his drink, swallows his mouthful too harshly and then coughs as it burns his throat. “Christ, Namjoon,” he grates out, and then they both burst into uncontrollable laughter.

They're truthfully not drunk enough to be laughing as hard as they are, but Yoongi seems giddy off the atmosphere and Namjoon’s not the type to put an end to a good thing. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages, still blushing. “It just—slipped out.”

Yoongi barks out another laugh. “Is that the sort of thing you wooed your wife with,” he prods, “or was it your outdated lyric poetry?”

Namjoon makes an indignant noise around his next sip. “I’d like to think it was both, thank you very much.” Yoongi arches an eyebrow over his glass as he takes another long sip. “And my poetry is _not_ outdated, fuck you kindly.”

“Oh, don't kid yourself, Namjoon,” the younger sighs, looking entirely unconcerned and unimpressed by Namjoon’s distress. “It’s _ancient_ . Academia might as well archive your work alongside Fontaine, or Villon, or worse, _Petrarch_.”

“What's wrong with Petrarch? The man _single-handedly_ started the Renaissance in the literary world, is that not a good thing?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, _five centuries_ ago.”

Belatedly, Namjoon realizes something. “I didn’t realize you read Italian poetry. Or was it a translation you read?”

Yoongi gives him a look. “No translation. And I don’t, really, read Italian poetry, I mean. But my tutor made me read a lot of older poetry. The classics and such. I learned Italian longside Latin. Which, by the way, is a completely ridiculous language to teach. It’s a dead language.” He throws down the rest of his drink angrily. “School’s stupid,” he finally concludes, expression pouty.

Namjoon frowns, rubs at the crease of his brow. “School’s important,” he argues without heat, before he continues. “Do you know any other languages? Besides Latin and Italian?”

“English,” he answers. “Greek, too. Some Arabic. But I’ll always prefer French literature. Modern work. Hugo, Baudelaire, Mallarmé. You.” He shrugs, and traces the rim of his glass. He suddenly seems shy.

Namjoon kicks at his shin under the table, grinning. “I thought you said my work was _outdated_ ,” he teases.

“It _is_ ,” Yoongi insists. “Your last book was shit!”

“They’re love poems,” Namjoon corrects. “A lot of people found them very beautiful.”

“But they’re all lies,” Yoongi points out. “That last book of yours? Premarital garbage. But... your early stuff is good. I loved _Dream No More_. Had a nice little pocket edition of it. _Dance, dream, and dream again_ ,” he quotes. “I’ve never read something so pessimistically romantic.”

Yoongi stands suddenly before Namjoon can digest the information, grabbing his coat and slinging it over his shoulder. “But it’s of no matter. Let’s get out of here. This place is stifling.”

 

♦

 

“ _Here it is winter in August_ ,” Jungah watches her husband mutters to himself, eyes scanning over his messy cursive and stacks of parchment at his desk, “ _My heart is running on the time_ … no. Maybe.... _Here it is winter_ —”

“Joon,” she finally calls out. “Take a break, hon, you’ve been at that desk all day.”

She’s not exaggerating—he _has_ been at the desk all day, diligently tearing through all the drafts of poetry he’d written in the last few months and heavily editing (or in more extreme cases, burning) all there was to edit (or burn). It’s an extreme action, even for him, and somehow Jungah can’t help but feel that it was the young Yoongi Min who was responsible.

She really can’t understand Namjoon—he is so _devoted_ to the other poet, spending his days (and sometimes even his nights) with the younger, gushing about his work and how revolutionary it was whenever he _was_ at the house. Jungah couldn’t comprehend it; to her, the younger’s poems just seemed crass, sometimes even incoherent, mere ramblings that lacked the delicate rhythm and sway that her husband had come to master. Not to mention that the elder was an established poet, with a thorough education and a proper upbringing—M. Min should be tripping over his feet to please _him_ , not vice versa. But something about the man entranced Namjoon, twisted at something deep inside him, and Jungah could only bare witness to it as Namjoon lost a new piece of his soul to him every day.

Her husband finally heaves a sigh, pinching at the bridge of his nose, and falls back in his chair. “I know,” he acknowledges. “You’re right, I need a break.”

“Come here,” Jungah sings, hoping to distract him, and frames her belly. “Feel our baby. He kicks more when you’re close by, you know that?”

It isn't strictly true, but the white lie gets the other to smile softly anyways and look over at her tenderly. He’s tired. Jungah can tell.

He shuffles over and kneels on the floor next to her, resting his ear against her belly and closing his eyes, listening. “Does it feel strange when he kicks?” he whispers. “The baby?”

She runs a hand through his hair. “Just a bit.” She continues to pet him for a few moments before speaking up again. “Was it something M. Min said?”

He blinks his eyes open. Frowns. She pokes at his nose in the hope it’ll knock the sour expression away. “What are you talking about?”

She returns her hand to his hair and kneads her fingertips into his scalp. Namjoon’s jaw goes slack at the pressure. “Whatever has gotten into you today. You're practically tearing your work apart. Was it something that he said?”

Her husband sighs. “I suppose. It's just—he mentioned something—he felt that my most recent works were... outdated.” She frowns at the statement as the other blinks up at her. “He's so far ahead of us all,” he gushes, letting his eyes fall shut again. “He makes me feel as if I’m from another century.”

“I don't really understand that kind of thing,” Jungah admits, her hand once again returning to gentle strokes of his hair. “His kind of writing.” She pauses and slides her fingers down to cup his jaw gently, peering into his eyes. “I prefer your poems.”

He gives her a look that feels loaded with meaning she can’t decipher. “You should read more,” he resolves simply. Under his ear, the baby is still.

 

♦

 

“You’re not much of a romantic, are you,” Namjoon finally concludes, a bottle of gin in one hand as he and Yoongi amble the crowded Paris streets together.

The younger is smoking his pipe again, letting the smoke he breathes out blend in with the smog of the city, his own mark on the land. “In the traditional sense? No,” he agrees easily, “I don’t believe in romance.” Another noisy inhale of his pipe. “Or love, for that matter.” Smoke spills out of his mouth as he speaks.

Namjoon’s so shocked by the statement that he stops in his tracks. A gentleman with a cane shoves past him with a glare as Yoongi takes advantage of his stillness to snag the bottle from his nearly slack hand, moving forward without him. “Don’t believe—what could you possibly mean?”

“I mean exactly what I say,” Yoongi says evenly, taking a swig of the alcohol and passing it back. Namjoon takes it and throws back a shot himself, feeling that he’ll need it for whatever Yoongi’s  answer will be. “Whatever binds families and married couples together—that’s not _love_. That’s _stupidity_ , or selfishness, or fear. Love doesn’t exist.”

“You’re wrong,” Namjoon argues softly, as Yoongi inhales the toxins he loves so dearly. He limply lets Yoongi take the gin bottle from his grasp when he reaches for it again.

“Self-interest exists,” Yoongi continues in his signature drawl, restarting their path down the crowded road. “Attachment based on personal gain exists. _Complacency_ exists… but not love.” He takes an elegant—well, as elegant as one can be, drinking straight from the bottle—sip of the gin, looking more thoughtful than anything as he gazes out over the smoggy horizon. “Love needs to be reinvented.”

He bends down and sends the nearly empty bottle rolling down the cobbled streets, miraculously making its way through the crowded forest of muddied shoes and wagon wheels without harm, surviving against all odds. Namjoon watches it disappear into the crowd, suddenly meditative, before Yoongi’s hand on his back pushes him forward.

 

♦

 

October 1871

Paris, France

 

“He stole some books from Daddy’s library, you know,” Jungah pipes up out of nowhere. Namjoon sends her a look over the top of his specs. “It’s been weeks. I wish he’d return them.”

 _Kindly ask him to replace the objects he's pilfered_ , echoes through his head. He sighs.

He tears his gaze away from where she’s embroidering a blanket, deciding he’s too drunk for this conversation, and lets his eyes rake back down his notebook instead. “Well, he’s not hurting anyone,” he chides, hoping that’ll be the end of it.

It's not. “That doesn’t make it right, Namjoon.” He doesn’t have to look up to know she’s frowning deeply at him.

Namjoon groans, tearing his spectacles off and casting them onto his desk with little care as he scrubs at his eyes. “This is what I don’t understand about you people,” he opens. “It’s not like your father will miss them or anything. The man hardly reads.” He throws his poetry down onto the desk as well, his focus thoroughly interrupted.

“They're still his books,” she insists, indignant.

He gives her a level stare. “You people don't understand what poverty is,” he finds himself grinding out. “You do realize that, back in Charleville, if he wanted a book he _had_ to steal it!”

“That just proves what kind of person he is!”

Namjoon groans, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Oh?” he baits. “And what kind of person is that?”

“A—a criminal!” she spits.

He laughs hollowly. “Jungah, you’re married to a Communard. I’ve killed people.”

The statement rings in the air for a moment, and she falters for a little bit, her lip is still pursed out indignantly. “It’s not the same. You—you were fighting for a _cause_. _He’s_ just being a nuisance!”

“You know very well that’s not the problem, Jungah. You just can’t stand the idea of me making new friends, is all,” he accuses, turning back to his desk.

“I—what? Namjoon, of course not. I just—you don’t need friends like _him_. It’s not like I have a problem with Hoseok!”

“That’s because he’s of _proper breeding_ ,” he spits, suddenly bitter. “But the minute some peasant from the Ardennes shows up with an _ounce_ of promise, you feel entitled to slander him as much as you goddamn well please. Just admit it, Jungah, you’re a regular classist _broad_.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and for a brief moment Namjoon thinks he’s actually won this argument. Then Jungah speaks up again, voice oddly cold and hollow. “Don’t ever call me that again, Namjoon.”

The statement hovers in the air for longer than Namjoon would like. Instead of giving her an answer, he simply stands and walks past her to the coat rack, shrugging on his coat. “I’m going out,” he says stiffly. “I can’t get any goddamn air in this house. Don’t expect me back soon,” he warns, finishing knotting his scarf, and then walks out the door, not hesitating to slam it behind him.

 

♦

 

“It was last summer during the war,” Yoongi starts, staring blankly up at the ceiling from his reclined position on the bed. “One of the many times I ran away from home.”

He’s been spending the last couple weeks in a haze of hashish and absinthe, writing in intense bursts between his conversations with Namjoon and spotty sleep. The lack of any real adventure has him bored and uninspired—half of what he spews onto paper is rubbish that ends up thrown into the stove fire.

The other is reclined in a creaky wooden chair, holding the pipe they’d been sharing in one hand. He’s pinning Yoongi with one of those impossible-to-read expressions when Yoongi glances down at him, as if he’s gathering and noting a million tiny details about the younger and storing them for later use. Trying to make sense of him, maybe.

“I came down to the river to fill my canteen,” he resumes, letting his gaze drift back to the ceiling, “and there was a Prussian soldier, not much older than me, asleep in the clearing.” Yoongi takes a deep breath. “I watched him for a long time before I realized… he wasn’t asleep. He was dead.”

Namjoon is silent. Yoongi can feel his eyes on him anyways. “Somehow that clarified things for me.” He swallows. “I just—I couldn’t let life pass me by. I needed to experience _everything_ in my body. No more fairytales, or Romanticism, or escapist fantasies. Just let my keel burst, and watch the truths of the world pour in.” He swallows. “Die a drowned man.”

There’s nothing but quiet for a few gentle moments. Yoongi doesn’t hesitate to press forward when Namjoon says nothing, only watches him. “You should apologize to Jungah.” He makes eye contact when he says this. “You stepped out of line. She’s just a kid.”

“So are you,” Namjoon whispers, echoing Yoongi’s words from earlier. As if that _means_ anything in the light of what Yoongi knows has just happened, as if their relationship is anything like Namjoon’s marriage, as if _Yoongi_ is anything like Jungah.

“And it’d do you well to remember that,” he says instead _—_ a warning _—_ as he rolls over to dim the oil lamp on the opposite side of the bed. “You should get going, Namjoon. I’m tired.”

 

♦

 

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon says later that night, face pressed to the delicate skin at the nape of Jungah’s neck. “I love you more than anything else in this world, Jungah. I don’t know what came over me.”

She takes a deep breath before speaking. “It’s the alcohol. Just _—_ don’t drink anymore, Joon-ah. Not at home. It makes you violent.”

 _Oh_ , he thinks, hand curling over her arm, _I wish it were only the drink._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *lyrics taken from the English translation of _no more dream_
> 
> **lyrics taken from the English translation of _spring day_
> 
> ***i'm only noting this bc this insult is so dated not even i knew what it was until recently, but you can generally translate it to "bitch"
> 
> ****this story, of find the dead soldier by the river, is taken from rimbaud's poem [sleeper in the valley](https://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poems/sleeper-valley).
> 
> also, as a general disclaimer, i know nothing of the dark age of renaissance poets. the extent of my knowledge is reading dante's inferno in freshman year of high school tbh


	5. a word against the butchering of french poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yoongi attempts an apology, and makes some enemies.

♦

 

October 1871

Paris, France

 

“Is that Berlioz?”

Jungah startles from her piano playing, whipping her head back to find the source of the voice, and is startled a second time upon discovering it was none other than Yoongi Min standing in the doorway of her drawing room. “Sorry to startle you,” he says over a limp-looking bouquet of flowers. “Can I come in?”

He looks wildly different from the last time she had seen him _—_ he’s dressed in a clean suit, now, hair pushed back in an attempt to look at least somewhat presentable. His face is clean and recently washed, and he’s clutching a bouquet of pink carnations in one hand like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them, knuckles white around the stems. In his other hand, he holds a small collection of books, handled with slightly more care than the flowers held pressed to his chest.

Jungah blinks. “What _—_ M. Min, _what_ are you doing here?”

He blinks back. “Oh, the butler let me right in. I’ll be quick, I promise.” He rocks back on his heels for a moment before continuing. “Namjoon told me your father was missing these books, so I came to return them. And… to apologize for causing such a commotion the night of my arrival. So I brought these.” He holds the flowers out awkwardly. “Sorry about them being kind of shitty, I only had so much change and the vendor seemed anxious to get rid of them.”

“I see being confronted by my father did nothing to make you less crass,” she observes, standing and shuffling forward cautiously to pluck the drooping flowers from his grip. She looks over the sad bunch with a disappointed look. “If the hopeless ones are plucked out, I _suppose_ these can be salvaged.” She peers back up at him with suspicion. “Why are you really here, M. Min?”

He sighs, like he had been expecting the question, and leans over to set the books down on a side table. “Call me Yoongi, Mme. Kim, please. I’m no Monsieur,” he says as he straightens. He goes quiet for a moment, not bothering to be discreet as his eyes drop to her pregnant belly and then flit back up to her face. “Mme. Kim… I know that you’re not exactly fond of me. And that's completely reasonable, I get it, truly, but... I don’t want you to think for a moment that my intent in coming to Paris was to cause you or your family any kind of duress.”

She strokes her stomach absently. “I see.”

“The truth is, I fell in love with your husband’s poetry when I was fourteen years old,” he continues. “I’d never read anything quite like it. I had loved Hugo, and Baudelaire, and I adore them still, but Namjoon’s work… changed me. And for the first time, I thought. I thought that maybe, by coming to Paris, I could learn from him.”

Jungah is quiet, absorbing the information. She thinks back to dinner on that first night, and then to Namjoon, burning the pages he had labored so tirelessly over. “I thought you said poets could only learn from each other if they were bad poets.”

He smiles softly. “I never said either of us were very good.”

She presses her lips together. “I understand. Well. Thank you for the flowers, M. Min. I’m sure you can show yourself out.”

He nods in understanding, stepping back outside the doorway. “Of course, Mme. Kim. Oh—and your take on Berlioz is truly impressive. ” He glances pointedly to the piano. “He’s one of my favorite composers, you know. You have extraordinary musical talent. Don't waste it.”

And with that, he disappears into the hallway, floorboards creaking in his wake.

 

♦

 

Yoongi returns to the Jung’s attic to find Namjoon hunched over Yoongi’s temporary writing desk, leafs of loose paper scattered across its surface. He frowns at the figure as he shrugs off his jacket. “Make a habit of inviting yourself in?”

“It's not your house,” Namjoon shoots back at him, not lifting his gaze from the pages. “Hoseok was happy to let me in. Besides, you weren't home.”

“You weren't either,” he says offhandedly as he disposes of his coat on the bed.

That causes Namjoon to stiffen, and then turn, wide-eyed. “What are you talking about?” Then, taking in his appearance, he tacks on, “And where’d you get the suit?”

Yoongi grins at him. “You like it? Hoseok lent it to me. It's a little long on me, but it’s a fine suit. I think he rather likes me.” He makes a show of unbuttoning his vest. “I paid Jungah a visit.”

The younger doesn't miss the way Namjoon’s eyes linger on his fingers before lifting back up to meet his gaze. “Good God, Yoongi, what did you do.”

Yoongi makes an offended noise as he turns away and shrugs off his vest, dropping it to the bed as well. “Oh, calm _down_. I apologized for that chaotic first evening over there. Returned those books her father was whining about. It was all a very professional affair, really.” He starts on his belt next. “What about you? Having a grand ol’ time snooping through my private entries?”

There's a squeak of wood and some rustling that Yoongi assumes means that the other has turned back around. “I didn't mean to snoop,” he mumbles.

“There seems to be an awful lot that you don't mean to do that you do, in fact, end up doing.” Belt finally removed, the younger turns back around and approaches where Namjoon’s seated from behind. He lets his hands fall to the other’s shoulders and squeezes, the muscles tense under his grip. “So while you're at it, why don't you offend me some more and give me some honest critique, hmm?”

“I would hardly call honest critique reason to be _offended_.” His shoulders remain stiff under Yoongi’s hands. The younger sighs and lets them fall away.

“You seem especially bitter this afternoon,” he observes dully. “More domestic disputes with the wife?”

“That's none of your business.”

“Oh, sure it's not. It's not like you invite yourself up here and _vent_ at me about it every time you two have an argument and you can't stand to be at home with her.”

Namjoon slumps at this and folds himself limply over the desk. “I’m sorry. I don't mean to put you in the middle of things.”

“Again,” Yoongi says, crossing his arms. “There seems to be a _lot_ that you don't mean to do that you do, in fact, end up doing.”

Namjoon sighs and twists in his seat to look up at Yoongi. “You're right,” he says apologetically. “It’s a bad habit, I suppose. How about I make it up to you _—_ how do you feel about dinner tonight at Cafe Bobino? Some acquaintances of mine are holding a function. You might enjoy some of the discussion.”

Yoongi perks up at this. “Writer friends, I hope?”

“If you can call them that,” Namjoon answers cryptically. He sighs and stands up, straightening out the sheets in front of him. “I’ll come to get you later. In the meantime, no more visiting my wife when I’m not around, alright?”

Yoongi laughs at this and lets himself fall back onto the busted mattress, arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the other. “I can't promise anything,” he provokes. “But I’ll try not to charm her too much.”

“Like you could charm anyone,” Namjoon says, like he isn't completely charmed by Yoongi himself.

Yoongi only grins and throws a pillow at him. It hits the older square in the face and falls to the floor unceremoniously. “I’ve charmed a few in my day,” he teases. “But I’ll be on my best behavior, M. Kim, promise.”

 

♦

 

“You see, the principle,” says the oaf to Yoongi’s right, “is very like photography, only instead of photographing the man’s _face_ , you photograph his _voice_.”

Yoongi groans out loud.

Dear _Lord_ , the scientific types were truly dreadful. Yoongi isn't sure why Namjoon decided to drag him to such an event—he understands that Namjoon wants him to _expand his academic circle_ , but did he really think Yoongi was going to get along with all these college-educated, aristocratic fucks at some dreadful after-dinner poetry reading?

He was hoping for _artists_ . Instead, he was met with judgemental stares the moment he had walked in ( _try to look like less of a terror than usual_ , Namjoon had begged him, _clean shirt, shoeshine, comb your hair, watch your manners_ ). The effort was pointless though; one glance told them all they’d ever want to know, seventeen-years-old and a real country bumpkin, nothing for _them_ to worry about.

“For Christ’s sake,” he hisses across the table at Namjoon, who is clearly doing his best to school his expression into his most polite _yes I’m listening and definitely not bored by anything you're saying_ face towards the Voice Photographer. “Let's get the fuck out of here.”

Namjoon sends a heavily judgemental eyebrow arch his way as the few men within earshot of his stage whisper give him dirty looks. “We can't,” he grits out.

“Why _not_.”

“He's about to start reading.”

Yoongi scans the rest of the table suspiciously. “Which one is it."

Namjoon points to a handsome man seated at the opposite end of the table. Yoongi sneers at the man’s top hat, even though Namjoon has one that's basically identical. “Monsieur Seungho Choi. Over there.”

Yoongi feels an unamused laugh bubble up from his throat. The man looks like the kind of person who would have kicked at Yoongi back when he used to beg on roadsides as a kid, laughing as his cheek ground into the dirt. “I don't think I’ll like him very much,” he warns.

Namjoon grins at him. “You won’t, it’s dreadful.”

“Have you any interest in photography?” interrupts an aristocratic voice to his right, and he turns to find a bearded man in a top hat a few seats down, pinning him with an interested look. _Christ_ , Yoongi is so glad Namjoon isn't a fan of facial hair. The top hat, at least, wasn't a permanent fixture.

It takes him a moment to realize the question had been directed towards him. “No, I haven’t, actually,” he answers, giving the man a strange look.

“Only, I was wondering how you’d like to be photographed.”

“Not particularly,” Yoongi answers uneasily, sharing a glance with Namjoon. The older only shrugs.

“That’s a shame,” the man says, “because I’d quite like to photograph you. I find your appearance very striking. You have a fine bone structure.”

“I also have a pretty great right hook,” he snaps darkly.

The man pauses for a second, seeming to struggle how to carry on the conversation. “M. Kim showed me some of your poems,” he finally settles on.

Yoongi glares at Namjoon, then returns his gaze to the other man. “Oh?” he prompts, aiming to sound disinterested as he settles an elbow on the table and props his chin up.

“Remarkable. Very promising,” the man says evenly. Yoongi smirks. “Only, it seems that all that ingenuity is rather marred by… well, not exactly a juvenile urge to shock, but. Something of the sort.”

“And were you shocked?” Yoongi prods.

The man almost looks offended, as if anything Yoongi wrote could ever be profound enough to shock an educated man like himself. “Well, no, I wasn't.”

Yoongi frowns openly at him. Namjoon flicks his gaze between the two, apprehensive, and reaches for his champagne flute to give himself something to do besides stare. “Then why would you suppose I intended you to be?”

“That's not really the point.”

“Seems fair enough to me,” Namjoon mutters into his drink. Monsieur Too Good For Juvenile Shock sends the poet an appalled look. Yoongi beams at him.

“I could object your technical approach,” the man tries instead.

“Well, _I_ could object your tie.”

Namjoon chokes on his drink.

“Well, if you're going to have that attitude _—”_

“He doesn’t like to discuss his poetry,” Namjoon explains in a rough voice after he recovers, in an attempt to excuse Yoongi’s behavior.

“I see.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, toying with his fork as the man gives him a grimly appraising look. Creepy little bastard. He catapults the fork at said bastard in revenge and enjoys the high pitched squeak he hears as it clatters to the other man’s plate, alarmingly close to his left breast. The prongs point ominously towards his heart.

“Be careful,” Namjoon chides, but he hardly sounds like he means it.

Yoongi only grins at him. “Oh,” he reassures, “I always am.”

 

♦

 

“I object,” Yoongi announces roughly an hour later, “to the butchering of French poetry.”

If someone asked Yoongi _exactly_ what unfolded in that cafe that night, he wouldn’t be able to say: he knows it involved a lot of alcohol, some _awful_ poetry, and finding out that Namjoon’s cane had a sword hidden inside, which was _wicked_ , and definitely got him and Namjoon both kicked out of the establishment possibly permanently because he _thinks_ they injured someone. But the night was mostly a blur, so Yoongi won’t concern himself with the details.

They make their escape soon after the sword-cane incident, chased out of the bar mob-style, sprinting down the street with clasped hands, the cool night air whipping past them. Yoongi’s giddy—he hasn’t pulled such a ridiculous stunt in _years_ , not since the days of graffiting on school walls and causing scenes in Church congregation. He doesn’t regret a thing—he, _finally_ , has Namjoon at this side, grinning and careless, at last just another hopeless case.

By the time they finally make it to the Jung residence, they’re hysterical, attempting unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter as they crawl up the stairwell to the attic, tears in their eyes and wheezing for breath. Namjoon suddenly stumbles on the stair in front of him and they go down together, giggling like a couple of school boys in the eerie quiet of the evening. Namjoon’s side is warm against Yoongi as he leans into him, forehead pressed to the elder’s collarbone. He smells like champagne and perfume.

Namjoon takes a breath as if to speak and gets a couples of false starts in, cascading into giggles a few times before he actually gets anything comprehensible out of his mouth. “And _that’s_ how to make it in the literary world,” he says grandly, and then they both descend into laughter again, all attempts at remaining quiet thrown to the wind.

Yoongi takes a moment to compose himself, face aching from smiling so hard as he pulls himself back to his feet and Namjoon clumsily follows suit. “The depressing thing about this city,” he starts, as they both resume up the stairs, swinging freely from the bannisters at each turn like kids, “is that the artists are even more bourgeois than the fucking Bourgeoisie.”

 

♦

 

They coexist in happy silence as they smoke later that night, slouched on opposite ends of the beat-up bed and passing the pipe between them. The room is heavy with the aroma of woodsmoke and hashish. They’ve both removed their coats and torn off their bow ties, vests loose and shirts half-buttoned and sleeves rolled up to their elbows.

Yoongi looks raw and beautiful like this, inky hair pushed back and falling in greasy strings over his forehead, collarbone shining with sweat in the weak candlelight. Namjoon thinks he could love him like this, someday, thinks he could learn to appreciate how Yoongi is true to himself in all the ways Jungah can’t afford to be, at once both so cruel and so kind.

Suddenly, Yoongi looks up from the pipe and catches Namjoon staring. It's too late to look away, so Namjoon opts to take the pipe from Yoongi instead, keeping his face carefully blank so as to avoid giving away his thoughts. The younger’s face is expressionless for a moment, but then he smiles softly at the elder—pleased, or amused, or both.

“We should make a bargain,” he announces abruptly. Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. “You help me, and I help you.”

“Oh? What kind of bargain?” Namjoon presses, leaning over to set the pipe to the side, decidedly done for the evening.

Yoongi grins at him and sits up, scooting closer to where Namjoon is reclined at the foot of the bed. He takes his time flicking his eyes across Namjoon’s face and Namjoon squints back, feeling like he’s being plotted against. “If we go away together, I’m sure you’ll be able to do good work again. And when we’ve taken as much as we can from each other… we simply split up and move on.”

The elder poet plays along for the moment, lifting a hand to rub at his temple as he struggles to comprehend the proposition. “Yeah? And how, exactly, would we live?”

For the first time in maybe ever, Yoongi looks _sheepish_. “Well... you have some money, don’t you?”

“Ah,” he vocalizes, “I understand. I help you by _supporting_ you, and you help me by… renewing my rusty old inspiration? Is that it?”

Yoongi goes a little pink, looking embarrassed as he scratches at the back of his neck. Namjoon suddenly realizes exactly how close they are—he’d leaned in at some point, pulled in by the younger’s gravity, helpless to the laws of nature.

When Yoongi looks up again, they’re only inches apart. Something goes soft in Yoongi’s face, and for the first time he really _looks_ at Namjoon, sees _through_ him, eyes glittering with some solemn realization Namjoon can’t quite puzzle out. Slowly, he reaches a hand up, and Namjoon’s eyes fall closed as a hand brushes back his hair, rough fingertips gentle against his temple. “Not altogether,” he hears the younger mumble, and then there’s lips pressing to his.

It’s a chaste kiss, soft and sweet, and Yoongi pulls back after only a few short moments. Namjoon blinks his eyes open, and they stare at each other, unsure, for a few terrifying seconds, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks.

He cradles the younger’s face in his hands and pulls him back towards him violently. _I want this_ , he tries to convey through his grip, tries to press through the movement of their lips and tongues, teeth clacking with a distinct lack of finesse. It's messy, a teenager’s kiss, and Namjoon grins into it as he presses Yoongi back into the mattress, his body warm and solid underneath him, present in a way that Jungah never was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: seungho choi is b-free's real name. if i was gonna namedrop anyone yoongi doesn't like, it might as well be him.
> 
> the machine the "voice photographer" is referring to would later become the first phonograph.
> 
> kudos, comments, and critique welcomed as always, my loves. thanks for hanging in there.


	6. a lesson on immorality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namjoon tries to be a better man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops
> 
> warning: this chapter contains a homophobic slur

♦

 

October 1871

Paris, France

 

Yoongi wakes to the quiet click of a door closing shut.

He blinks his eyes open blearily, barely registering that it's still dark out, and that the house is quiet. _Very_ quiet. He throws an arm out next to him to feel for Namjoon, maybe, but the bed is empty, sheets still warm where the other poet had presumably just been lying. He frowns at the empty space and sighs into his pillow. _Bad form, Namjoon_ , he thinks. _Bad form_.

He lets his gaze drift over to his desk and contemplates getting up to write for a bit, but he can feel the chill of the early morning air settled over the room, nipping at where his bare shoulders peak out from underneath the sheets, and elects not to risk the cold. So instead he burrows down deeper into the blankets, closes his eyes, and wonders what in God’s name he’s gotten himself into.

 

♦

 

Namjoon’s still drunk when he stumbles into his and Jungah’s bedroom.

He crashes rather clumsily through the doorway and immediately hears a “ _shh!_ ” coming from the bed. He immediately apologizes into the dark, raising the candlestick he’d been carrying in the hope of better lighting the way to the bed.

“ _Where have you been?_ ” Jungah whispers, that exasperated look he's been so familiar with lately occupying her features, as he stumbles closer. Only, there's something in the way of the bed, and he frowns at it.

“I thought I’d just get in the way…” he trails off, too loud for the room as he inspects the _—_ _cradle_?

“You’ll wake the baby,” Jungah says.

Namjoon pauses.

 _The baby_.

“That _—_ you _—_ I _missed_ it?”

She laughs. At first, a wave of relief crashes through him as he realizes she isn't angry with him, but then he immediately feels horribly guilty, thinking about all the ways he'd breached her trust that night. _If only she knew_ , he thinks. “My water broke while you were at dinner,” she explains, “but it was quite alright—Mother and the doctor talked me through everything. It was no walk in the park, but it's over and he's healthy, so I'm happy.”

“He? It's a boy?” he whispers in disbelief as he peeks into the crib. The infant was still pretty red and wrinkly, perpetually mad at the world for making him leave the place he had comfortably nested for nine months. “Funny-looking little bugger,” he coos.

He then turns to Jungah instead, not trusting himself to get any closer to the baby while still drunk, and sets the candlestick down on the bedside table so that he could make out his wife’s face more clearly. She's rumpled and tired, and looks so terribly young, face bloated from sleep. “Thank you,” he whispers to her cheek, then kisses her sweetly on the lips. “Thank you.”

She pets at his head fondly for a moment before kissing the crown of his head, signaling him to pull away. “Now get in bed, you miserable asshole, and let me sleep. I just gave _birth_.”

He chuckles as lightheartedly as he can manage and pulls away to properly undress, trying not to let his mind linger too much on all the acts he had been committing while his wife was in labor. _It can wait until morning_ , he insists to himself, when he knows he’ll have all his mental faculties together, but he knows there’s only one moral course of action possible and he isn’t sure he wants to face that fact yet.

For now, he would sleep, and hopefully dream of nothing.

 

♦

 

October 1871

Paris, France

 

“We need to talk,” Namjoon says, pushing into the attic room before Yoongi even has his hand on the knob. Yoongi blinks after him, still in his nightshirt, ink smudges on his hand and feeling both confused and a little put out. He was still a bit bummed about how the other had left the other morning.

“Uh, alright,” he says, unsure. “Look, about the other night _—_ ”

“We can’t do anything like that again,” Namjoon states firmly. Yoongi blinks at him, surprised by the firm statement. “Jungah just had her _—our_ baby. Our _son_ . The night we _—_ you know.” The other man is standing by Yoongi’s desk, hand planted on the back of the chair and gripping it tightly. The younger drops his gaze to his knuckles, the skin pale and white under the strain of his grip.

“Fucked?” Yoongi supplies helpfully, mind reeling with the news Namjoon had just thrown at him.

“We didn't—Christ, that’s not the _point_ , Yoongi,” Namjoon sighs, hand lifting to pinch between his brows. “So alright, we _—_ we had a brush once, we _—_ we can’t do it again. I have a wife, a _son_ now, and I can’t be—rolling around in the goddamn _grass_ with my fucking teenage protégé, of all goddamn people.” There’s thinly-veiled anger in the last phrase, but it feels more like it’s directed towards himself than towards Yoongi. “I’m sorry. What I did that night was _—_ irresponsible. More than that, it was _immoral_ , I _—_ ”

“Immoral, huh?” Yoongi prods, arms crossed. Namjoon was _right,_ but that didn't mean the younger was happy or impressed with this saintly little act the elder suddenly felt moved to put on. “Didn’t think you cared too much for _morality_ , all things considered.”

Namjoon looks up sharply at the statement, looking gravely offended. “Excuse me?”

“You’re married to a goddamn _child_ for no good reason and you’ve openly been eyeing me for _weeks_ , but I get drunk once and have a brush with you and suddenly you’re Jesus fucking Christ? I’m not some home wrecker, Namjoon; I’m not looking to ruin your marriage or make you fall in love with me. That’s _all_ you. _You’re_ the one that’s openly discontent with his marriage, _you’re_ the one that’s been making eyes, _you’re_ the one that took the initiative last night. If you don’t want to do this, that’s _fine_ , but now you’re using it as some kind of moral high ground and I _don’t_ like it. Don’t ever do that with me. You are _not_ better than me.”

“I- I’m sorry,” Namjoon stutters, looking lost for words. “I just—I guess I’m just confused?”

“Clearly,” Yoongi deadpans.

“I just—Christ, I _like_ you, Yoongi, I… I’ll admit I’m very attracted to you, but I’ve been way to lenient with myself these last several weeks. It’s no fault of yours, I swear I’m not trying to leverage any moral high ground over you, or anything, just… seeing Jungah hold our child really put things into perspective for me. You can view our marriage as a mistake all you want, and maybe it is, but we have a family now and I owe her something better than what I’m currently giving her. So.” He lets his arms fall to his sides limply.

Yoongi deflates at the sight, letting his crossed arms fall. “You’re serious?” Namjoon nods gravely. “Well. Shit.”

Namjoon just sighs again, shoulders slumping as his hand returns to his brow. “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter. But the point is—” he moves his hand out to make a gesture, gaze firmly on the worn floorboards beneath their feet instead of Yoongi’s face, “—from now on, our relationship is strictly professional. Any hashish, any drinking _—_ that had to be kept to the public sphere. I can’t be holed up in this room with you anymore, it’s just... it's too intimate. ”

“RIght,” Yoongi says stiffly. “Strictly professional. Got it. I suppose that means I’ve got to put on some pants, then?”

“I’d actually quite appreciate that,” Namjoon says offhandedly, rubbing at his forehead and not looking at Yoongi.

The younger sighs, grabbing his trousers from where he had them draped over the footboard of the bed. Namjoon had been the last one to undress him. “I would hope this means that you’ll at least spend some time actually helping with my poetry,” he announces stiffly. “I’ve written lots, you know, but you haven’t exactly made much time to read any.” He tries not to let too much bitterness seep into his tone, but he doesn't think he quite succeeds.

“I’m sorry,” he hears the other mumble as he steps into his clothes. He can feel the film of dirt on the worn fabric—they really need a wash. “I guess I was distracted by _—_ well, by the rest of you.”

“Oh, I thought we were keeping it professional?” Yoongi teases as he buttons his trousers.

“I meant by your character,” Namjoon grinds out. Yoongi grins cheekily at the glare sent his way. “Why does everything have to be an innuendo with you?”

Yoongi shrugs as he finishes buttoning his pants. “S’just what it sounded like,” he defends innocently.

Namjoon sighs, pulling out the desk chair so that he could seat himself, the younger taking a seat opposite him on the busted mattress, sensing there was a longer conversation unfolding. “There’s some friends of mine I would like to introduce you to. Other writers. I’ve shown them your work _,_ and they were quite impressed with it. I’m sure you’d appreciate their input as well.”

Yoongi hums, propping up his cheek with an open hand. “And who, specifically, are these friends of yours? Your last set of _friends_ didn’t exactly take well to me.”

“Seokjin Kim and Jackson Wang, primarily,” Namjoon answers. “Hoseok, too, but you’ve already been introduced, obviously.”

“I like Hoseok,” Yoongi offers honestly.

“He's a good man,” Namjoon agrees. “And an even better man once you get a few drinks in him. The point is, I think it’d do us both some good. How do you feel about drinks sometime? Us, Hoseok, and Monsieur Kim and Wang? Consider it reparations on my part for how I acted towards you last night.”

“If there’s alcohol and literary discourse there, consider me present,” Yoongi says cheerily, reclining backwards onto the busted mattress, arms folded behind his head. “Maybe I’ll find a bachelor to take home and not worry about ruining any other marriages.”

 

♦

 

“Gentlemen,” Namjoon begins later that night, in the corner of a crowded bar as Hoseok seats himself comfortably next to three devastatingly handsome men (weren’t there only supposed to be two?) that Yoongi doesn’t know. “I would like to introduce you to a _brilliant_ young poet—”

“Ugh, not another one,” says one of the men before Namjoon even gets around to Yoongi’s name. Namjoon frowns at the other in Yoongi’s place, and Hoseok smacks the man on the arm goodnaturedly.

“Don’t be rude, Jackson,” Yoongi hears, before Namjoon continues, disgruntled, a hand on his lower back gently pushing him forward.

“Gentlemen, this is Monsieur Yoongi Min. Be _nice_ ,” he hisses.

“Never heard of him,” the first man (Jackson?) immediately blurts, even as he gives Yoongi an obvious once-over.

“Jackson,” Namjoon says tiredly. “I showed you some of his work, remember? You _loved_ it.”

Yoongi watches as realization dawns on the man and he turns to look at the younger poet in shock. “Oh, shit.”

“The rude one is Monsieur Jackson Wang,” Namjoon explains apologetically as he moves to seat them both. Yoongi shuffles into his seat quietly, observing the table. “You may be familiar with some of his work, but he’s more of an essayist than a poet.”

“I have a lot to say,” Jackson defends. Hoseok smacks him again.

“Ignore him, Yoongi,” Hoseok advises with a friendly wink. “He’s full of shit.”

“We’re poets, isn’t that a prerequisite?” pipes up a man on Jackson’s other side, taking an idle sip of his drink and not looking at Yoongi.

“The witty one is Monsieur Seokjin Kim. He’s a writer for _Le Revue de Paris_. Oh, sorry, and that’s Taehyung Kim.” Namjoon points to a younger looking boy on M. Kim’s other side. “He works at the print shop.”

Taehyung smiles brightly at him, grin boxy and genuine. “S’a pleasure!”

“Let’s get some drinks in here, shall we? What are we having?” Namjoon attempts to start.

“Absinthe, of course,” Jackson answers dismissively. “Taehyung!” he suddenly barks. “Order some absinthe for the group of us, yeah? _Lots_.”

The boy quite literally jumps out of his seat at the opportunity, seeming eager to please as he dodges his way through the crowd towards the bar. As the boy heads out, Jackson leans into the table, producing a pipe out of seemingly nowhere as he leers at Yoongi. “So,” he begins, “What poets do you read, young man? Besides our dear Namjoon, of course.”

“Do you want me to list them alphabetically, or chronologically?” he snips, knowing he's being tested. The other laughs, seemingly satisfied with his answer.

“You're just as much of a smartass as your work might suggest,” Jackson observes. “No wonder Namjoon’s so goddamn queer for you.”

“You have no idea,” Yoongi deadpans, and ignores the uncomfortable look Namjoon throws his way.

“You must love Musset’s work,” Jackson offers, not seeming to notice the awkward moment that passed.

“Not really.” The _Revue de Paris_ writer quirks an eyebrow at him from Jackson’s other side. Yoongi levels his look. “I mean, he’s fine. Far too provincial for my taste. All that charm and greenery _—_ there’s nothing of _Paris_ in his works. It feels out of touch. With what matters to us, at least.”

“Us?” the Revue writer prompts.

Yoongi sighs. “My… _our_ generation. The hesitation and laziness that holds us back from any real commitment, our unfulfilled philosophical and religious pretentions, our… I don’t know. Our growing apathy to the arguments of our fathers, our… emotions. Powerful, vague. He puts a name to things to easily. Life is so much more unsure.”

“Wow,” the man offers.

“Sorry,” Namjoon interrupts, “Yoongi loves to be pretentious.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” the younger challenges. Namjoon shrugs helplessly.

“You make some good points,” Jackson amends. “I agree that this generation’s writers are vying for some sense of rebirth.”

“Which makes me wonder,” Yoongi chimes back in, watching as the print shop boy elbows his way back to the table with a precarious-looking armful of bright green drinks in tow, “as this increasingly pointless century begins to draw to a close: what next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, i love pretentious literary dialogue, but don't be fooled into thinking i have any idea what im talking about
> 
> also, an honest note: i have nothing else pre-written from this point on. i know where i want this story to go, it's just a matter of getting there. don't be too mad with me.
> 
> kudos, comments, critique, etc. always welcome, please tell me how im doing
> 
> edit: i've just gone back and done minor edits to all the previous chapters + changed the summary; nothing important enough to go back and re-read, but keep that in mind if stuff sounds different.


	7. abstinence / abjection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Namjoon tries to keep his life from falling apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, i didn't post for months but here's two chapters in two days i guess
> 
> warning: not proofread
> 
> a more serious warning: this chapter contains multiple arguments, homophobic language and one scene of violence. please tread carefully.

♦

 

November 1871

Paris, France

 

“May I?” Namjoon asks quietly from where he stands to the side of the desk, gently thumbing the corner of the piece of paper Yoongi is furiously writing on.

“Wait,” he orders, holding up his free hand to hold him off. Namjoon awkwardly pulls away, and Yoongi can feel his eyes on him as he scratches out a word and adds an article, still dissatisfied with what he’s written. He shoves it over towards Namjoon anyways, who takes it with a weary look. Yoongi ignores it.

There’s a few moments of silent reading, and then the older makes a disappointed hum. Impatient, Yoongi demands, “ _What_?”

He sees Namjoon struggle to find the right words, clearly not wanting to offend him. “It’s… very clever. Perhaps too much so?” He exhales, frustrated. “You’re getting so caught up in using striking expressions that the idea gets a _little_ confused.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Yoongi bites out, arms crossed.

“There’s too many words, but too little said.” Yoongi raises his eyebrows at him, and Namjoon quickly backtracks. “Not that you do not have a lot to say! Or, even that you’re too wordy, it’s just… _how_ you choose to be wordy.”

Yoongi sighs. “Well, at least that’s a little more specific than _Monsieur Seokjin Kim_ ’s comments,” he offers.

Namjoon looks over at him concernedly, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“He _loved_ my last poem,” Yoongi starts, gesturing out at the table, “and then he went on to say there was ‘room for improvement'. But he didn’t know what he meant. He didn’t mean it at all! The other day, he suggested ‘changing the opening line’. Why? Because it’s the only line he could remember! And then he went on to give me a _signed copy_ of his _stupid_ little treaties on French versification. How can he patronize me like that?”

“That book only came out this year,” Namjoon reminds him lightly. “It was very kind of him to give you a free copy—”

“I don’t need a fucking rule book!” Yoongi finally snaps. “French poetry doesn’t need any more _fucking_ rule books.” He exhales angrily, sliding down in his seat and crossing his arms, not caring how childish he’s coming off. “He’s just like my teachers from Charleville,” he mumbles. “They just can’t stand the fact that I don’t _need_ them.”

There’s a tense pause and Yoongi already knows he’s said something to piss the other off. “Oh, and I suppose I’m just another walking _an_ achronism—” Namjoon slams the sheet of paper back on the desk, the sharp noise startling a flinch out of Yoongi as the older leans over, caging him in, “— _butting_ in where I’m not needed?”

Yoongi huffs, disliking how Namjoon is leveraging his stance. “I didn’t say that,” he says petulantly.

Namjoon continues to glare at him—more fiercely than Yoongi is used to from the usually meeker poet—and rips the paper back towards himself, standing up straight again and taking a few steps back out of Yoongi’s space as he frowns down at sheet. He seems to deflate a little and asks in a flat, exasperated voice, “Why did you come to Paris, Yoongi?” The younger shifts uncomfortably. “‘In poetic brotherhood’? If you came _all_ this way just to make faces at the writers you meet, hide in your room and scribble self-satisfied, ready-made verses then you _may_ as well have stayed in Charleville.”

Yoongi toes at a floorboard, frowning down at the scratched up wood grain of the table and feeling effectively scolded. He’s quiet for a long time before he finally speaks up. “Do you think it needs,” he starts quietly, “fewer… adjectives? Is it the syntax that’s awkward? Is—”

“No,” Namjoon cuts in gently, seeming apologetic for his outburst and swooping in with the poem in hand, crowding in next to Yoongi so they can peer at it together, “not necessarily. Look, here, in the second verse—”

They both lean in closer to the paper at the same time and Yoongi feels the accidental brush of Namjoon’s cheek against his own, the skin warm and smooth and painfully familiar. He jolts backward at the contact, mumbling an apology as Namjoon blushes and does the same.

“Sorry,” the older says, even as Yoongi watches his eyes fall to the younger’s lips. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” the younger rushes out, mostly hating how he reacted. “It wasn’t…” he trails off as he notices Namjoon slowly leaning closer, not sure if he should be the voice of reason. In the moment, it’s ridiculously tempting to just go for it, the other poet looking ridiculously attractive in the Rembrandt lighting streaming in from the window, but Yoongi isn’t sure if…

There’s a sudden knock on the door and Namjoon pulls away sharply, turning and stepping a few paces away from the desk, hand over his mouth. Yoongi releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’s been holding as he stutters out a reply.

“Y-yes?”

“Is everything quite alright up here?” Hoseok’s voice calls through the thin wood. “I heard arguing.”

“We’re fine!” Namjoon cuts in. “Simple literary discourse, is all.”

“If you say so,” Hoseok says doubtfully. “Well, let us know if you intend to stay for lunch. We’ll set a place for you if so.”

“No,” Namjoon answers, turning to make eye contact with Yoongi, who shrugs. “I’ll, uh, be leaving soon.”

Hoseok gives an affirmative and trudges back down the steps, footfalls echoing hollowly in the attic space. Namjoon’s still staring at him wide-eyed. “That didn’t happen,” he says quietly.

“Alright,” Yoongi says simply, and that’s that.

 

♦

 

December 1871

Paris, France

 

“The little rat drew a fucking knife on me after that piece I wrote in the paper,” is the first thing Namjoon hears as he’s about to round the corner for their usual table at Cafe Andre. He halts himself just before he does, recognizing Jackson’s voice and having a feeling he knew who he was talking about it.

“Which one was that?” he hears Jin chime in. “I don’t think I saw it.”

“Oh, Jin,” Jackson drawls, “I’m hurt!”

“Well, you can’t expect me to rifle through the back pages of every trash magazine in Paris, my dear friend. Life’s too short, etcetera, etcetera.”

“It just mentioned that I saw our friend Namjoon skunking about outside the Opera with a _charming_ Mademoiselle Min Yoongi.” Namjoon frowns deeply as he hears Jin cackle. “The point is, he leaped at me across the table with a pocket knife clenched between his teeth like some kind of _savage_. I’m no gentleman, but _imagine!_ ”

“Good heavens,” Jin exclaims. “What did you do?”

“What did I _do_ ? I grabbed the brat by the scruff of his neck and dragged him out into the hallway to give him a good _spanking_! He almost took out my eye for that, but by God, a few of those would have done a world of good if delivered earlier on in his development.”

“You just can’t bother yourself with kids like that,” Jin reasons. “A boy like him wouldn’t recognize a knife and fork after growing up in some barn near the Belgian border.”

“Sorry,” he hears Taehyung interject, “but… if all this is really true, then how is he such an esteemed member of M. Jung’s literary circle?”

“Hoseok’s seems to have taken a shining to him,” Jackson answers. “In fact, I think he’s housing the kid in his upstairs.”

“ _Really_ ?” Jin interjects. “Hoseok? He normally doesn’t stand for any kind of misbehavior. You don’t think he’s...” he lowers his voice, “a _pederast_ , do you? I mean we all knew about Namjoon’s little _weakness_ , but… I never thought of _Hoseok_ as a shirt-lifter.”

“No, no,” Jackson corrects. “I don’t think it’s anything like that. I’m pretty sure Yoongi’s just damn good at flattery.”

It’s at that moment that Yoongi brushes up next to him with Hoseok on his other side, looking puzzled as to why Namjoon’s just standing there. He looks so breathtakingly beautiful in that moment—black hair frosty and windswept, nose and cheeks adorably pink from the cold, snowflakes in his eyelashes, plaid scarf piled up under his chin. It was Namjoon’s scarf. Namjoon would kiss him if Hoseok weren’t right there and he weren’t trying to be a better husband.

“What’s the matter?” Yoongi asks curiously. “Why are you standing here like this?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Namjoon quickly dismisses, and ushers all three of them forward, deeply bothered by the conversation he just heard. He wants to ask Yoongi about it now, but instead he simply makes a note to bring it up at a later time.

 

♦

 

“Honey,” Jungah breeches to him that night as she breastfeeds, Namjoon himself peering over the latest sheet of poetry Yoongi had handed to him, “Please don’t be angry with me for saying this, but I think maybe M. Min should go back home to his mother’s for a little while.”

“Why would you say that,” he asks distractedly, still pouring over the page in front of him.

“Because Christmas is coming up.” He looks over after hearing her tone of voice. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and she’s wearing that adorably pouty look that he has a love-hate relationship with. “It’s our first Christmas with our son, I just feel like M. Min will… distract you. Besides, he should be home with his own family for Christmas. I’m sure they miss him.”

“You think I’ve been distracted?” he asks, genuinely concerned.

“Don’t be mad,” she pleads. He shakes his head and gives her a reassuring peck on the shoulder to calm her.

“Never,” he says.

“You’re rarely home,” she says. “You’re always out with other writers, doing your… well, I don’t quite know what you do, but I’m always here alone with my mother and the baby and I just... miss you.”

He sighs, feeling tired and guilty. “I’m sorry, love. I don’t mean to ignore you. I’ve been trying to pull myself together. I’ve been drinking less, if that counts for anything.”

“No, I know,” she sighs. “And I appreciate it. Don’t think I don’t know how hard you’ve been trying since Dohyun was born, I know you have been. I just… I want a few weeks of family time.”

He sighs deeply. “I’ll think about it,” he says noncommittally. Jungah doesn’t reply.

 

♦

 

December 1871

Paris, France

 

“Yoongi,” Namjoon suddenly pipes up from where he’d been reclined, revising poetry on Yoongi’s bed. The younger makes a noncommittal noise, chewing on the end of his pen as he frowned down at his paper. “Has Jackson ever bothered you before?”

Yoongi looks up, then twists around to face Namjoon, taken off guard by the question. “What?”

“At our meeting the other night, I overheard him talking about this trash piece he put in the paper and he said you confronted him about it. He… said he dragged you outside to try to discipline you.”

Yoongi stomach drops, vividly remembering the incident. “That’s not exactly what happened, but if that’s how he wants to phrase it, sure.”

“Yoongi.”

The younger laughs hollowly. “He called me Mademoiselle Min in passing, just to be an asshole, and I jumped him for it. He _tried_ to pull that disciplinary shit on me, like I was some little _boy_ , and I almost socked him in the eye. Nobody won, a patron broke it up, so don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”

“Are you hurt?” Namjoon asks with concern.

“I’m not made of goddamn glass,” Yoongi argues. “I’ve been in fights before, Namjoon, It’s quite alright.”

“It just bothers me they’ve been talking about you like this all this time and I never knew,” the older admits. “And I’ve been so adamant about you respecting their opinions, as well. I feel terrible.”

“Oh, it was bound to happen at some point. They all know we’re both fuckin’ fairies and they’ll bully us for it no matter what. That’s just how it is for us.” Yoongi can’t help being pessimistic.

“But they’re not even _right_!”

“Aren’t they, Namjoon?” Yoongi challenges. “I don’t try anything because I know how important this whole family-man facade is to you, but if it weren’t for your pride and your insistence on playing this… respectable bourgeoisie in a starched white collar, we _both_ know we’d be fucking like rabbits.”

“Excuse me?” Namjoon demands. “ _Facade?_ ”

“Oh, please,” Yoongi dismisses, turning back around and returning to his work. He doesn’t know why, but he’s suddenly angry, frustrated with Namjoon’s constant denial of his own feelings. “You’re completely deluded, pretending to be charmed by this... _dainty_ little cage you’re in, but, look beyond the gilded gold and you’ll see a man behind _bars_ . It’s _depressing_ , Namjoon.”

“Oh, _Christ_ , do you ever know when to shut up?” Namjoon exclaims behind him, and Yoongi hears the mattress squeak as the man presumably throws his papers to the side and launches himself from the bed.

“Do _I_ know when to shut up?!” Yoongi cries, ignoring the other as he stomps up to the side of his desk. “All you ever _do_ is talk, Namjoon! Sometimes I wonder what would happen if—”

He’s abruptly cut off when Namjoon grasps him by the collar and hauls him over the desk, shouting profanities. “What the _hell_ do you know about _anything_ , you petulant—fucking—child!” He shakes Yoongi’s shoulders aggressively with each last word. “Do you know that? A brat, you’re just a brat!” Against his better judgement, Yoongi begins to cackle as the other wraps his hands around his throat, something grossly satisfying about the way Namjoon is finally breaking. He feels like he’s been waiting for this moment for _weeks_. “You have _no idea_ how badly I want to fucking _strangle you_ sometimes—”

“Then fucking do it!” Yoongi spits. “Just _once_ I’d love to see you—”

He’s cut off as Namjoon actually does so, squeezing around his throat and closing his windpipe. Yoongi chokes, lifting a hand to push up at Namjoon’s shoulder as his legs kick wildly, knees knocking into Namjoon’s side, panic beginning to genuinely set in as he realizes the other could truly kill him right now if he wanted to.

Suddenly Namjoon’s eyes widen, and the man abruptly lets go, Yoongi gasping for breath under him. “Oh my God,” the poet says to himself, then scrambles off Yoongi, pulling him upwards so the younger’s sitting up on the desk, Namjoon between his legs. “What have I done, what have I done,” he whispers to himself, Yoongi coughing violently into his arm.

“Relax,” he croaks, humor somehow cracking to the surface at the most inappropriate moments, “I’m just peachy.”

“No, oh my goodness, are you alright? What have I _done_ —”

“Stop groveling,” Yoongi interrupts roughly, then cracks a crooked grin at him. “Not made of glass, remember?” The smartass comments seem to put the other somewhat at ease, and he relaxes, letting his hands fall from where they’d been cradling Yoongi’s face and moving back from the younger. “Call me a masochist,” he continues, “but that might have been the most fun I’ve had in awhile.”

Namjoon looks disturbed by the comment, taking another cautious step back. “I think, perhaps,” he says faintly, “it’s time I went home,”

Yoongi lets the grin fall from his face and levels him with a look, sliding down from the desk to try to achieve some equal footing. It doesn’t work; the elder has at least half a foot on him. “You always run away, Namjoon,” he finally sighs, the high of the previous moment effectively gone. “You can barely even look me in the eyes anymore. How can I expect you to be honest with me, when you can’t even be honest with yourself? How can I learn from that? How does that benefit either of us? Either of our _careers_? Why do you keep insisting that—”

“Because!” Namjoon cuts in, looking on the verge of tears. “ _Because_ , this is _torture!_ ” he cries, and Yoongi feels the breath leave his lungs in one, overwhelming _whoosh_ as he’s grabbed by the shirt and pulled into a kiss, teeth clacking as they crash together inelegantly. This time, he doesn’t fight it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are my fuel


	8. burst and bled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, my updates have been sporadic at this point idk what to tell you
> 
> warning: homophobic attitudes, scenes of violence (including some mentions of blood), one use of a misogynistic slur by a main character

♦

 

December 1871

Paris, France

 

“Well,” Yoongi says, stretching out leisurely on the effectively worn out mattress and wrinkled sheets, fingertips brushing the rusting wire headboard, “we abstained for a good two months; I’d say that’s admirable.”

Namjoon ignores the comment, instead eyeing the way the sunshine falls in panels over Yoongi’s naked torso, slanted square after square of soft, glowing skin. It makes him look deceivingly angelic, black hair splayed across his pillow like some kind of inky halo.

“Do you think it's possible to be in love with two people at once?” Namjoon asks softly.

Yoongi laughs at the confession. “Oh, please, you’re not in love with either of us,” the younger dismisses lightly. “You’re just frustrated and horny because Jungah’s out of commission, and I’m awfully convenient.”

_You’re anything but convenient,_  Namjoon thinks to himself.

“Sorry about strangling you,” he offers after a moment, not in the mood to argue with the other over his mixed feelings. “I wasn't even drunk. I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what came over me—I’m not usually prone to rages like that. Not while sober.”

“I’m just especially infuriating,” Yoongi deadpans. “Don't worry about it. I encouraged you.” He leans over to peck Namjoon on the temple in reassurance before moving to sit up, groaning as he does so. Namjoon can count every bump in his spine as he slumps over and rubs a hand over his face, bloated with sleep. “ _God_ , I’m sore.”

“Oh no,” Namjoon voices worriedly, “are you hurt?”

Yoongi shakes his head, face still buried in his hands. “You must stop with all this _fretting_ ,” he complains, turning his head to catch Namjoon in his peripheral. His side profile is frustratingly attractive. “I’m tougher than I look, Namjoon, you must understand that. Certainly tougher than Jungah.”

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon apologizes sincerely. “I know that. I just—you just look so _delicate_.”

“I know,” Yoongi admits grumpily, turning away and pivoting so he can slide his legs off the edge of the bed and reach down to grab his trousers. “It’s why I am the way I am. How did Jungah put it—my _brazenness_. I can’t afford to be anything else. I refuse to be an easy target.”

“Believe me,” Namjoon reassures, “you’re not.”

 

♦

 

December 1871

Paris, France

 

“Oh, I see Mademoiselle Min is joining us today,” Jackson jabs as soon as Yoongi approaches their usual table at Cafe Andre, Namjoon by his side. Namjoon gives the man an unimpressed look while Yoongi calmly takes a beer from the table and tosses it in the other’s face, the liquid hitting his shirt with a dull _splat_ that’s mostly masked by the bar chatter.

The man immediately jumps up with a sharp gasp, shock written across his features as he exclaims, “What the _hell_ , kid!”

“Oops,” Yoongi deadpans, and slips into his seat, looking bored.

Hoseok arrives precisely at that moment, his brisk pace coming to a halt as he rounds the corner and blinks innocently at Jackson’s shocked expression and his now soaked shirt. “Did I miss something?” he asks as he finishes tucking something into his breast pocket, looking every bit the polished gentleman.

“Just Jackson being an idiot,” Namjoon dismisses, taking his seat next to Yoongi and not being shy about the arm he throws over the back of his chair. Yoongi leans into him comfortably, and Namjoon can’t help the small, thrilled feeling that trickles down his spine at the feeling of the younger’s body tucked into his side. “Nothing worth minding.”

“You’re a fucking _animal,_ ” Jackson accuses in exasperation as he untucks and wrings out his shirt fruitlessly. “ _Shit_.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about, Jackson,” Hoseok huffs as he moves to sit opposite the man. “Can't we have just _one_ meeting of civilized literary discourse without falling into some petty argument?”

“The little shit threw my drink on me!”

“Something tells me you provoked him.”

“He did,” Namjoon confirms, something about the warmth of Yoongi leaning into his side making him more confident than usual. “He called him ‘Mademoiselle Min’. Not for the first time, either.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes as he tugs off his gloves, throwing them on the table. “Jackson, you’re better than that. For the record, Yoongi, so are you.” He gives the younger a pointed look across the table, and Yoongi rolls his eyes, arms crossed. “Now, can we move on?”

Yoongi shrugs under Namjoon’s arm, and the elder shifts his gaze to Hoseok, conveying the same sentiment. Jackson gives no response but Hoseok takes it as an affirmative. “Wonderful. Now, where’s our other Monsieur Kim?”

“Here,” the man answers as he rounds the corner, looking devastatingly handsome as usual, Taehyung wide-eyed by his side. Namjoon isn’t sure why the younger boy insists on tagging along with the poet everywhere he went, but he’s glad he does, as he considers him one of the few tentative voices of reason within their group. “Oh, dear. What happened to your shirt, Jackson?”

The other man’s still attempting to wring it out, fixating Yoongi with an unhappy look. “Why don’t you ask our young Monsieur Min?”

“Oh, so _now_ I’m a Monsieur?” Yoongi argues.

“I can call you your proper title of _Mademoiselle_ again, if you like,” Jackson jokes. “Seeing as you’re making a shameless show of being Monsieur Kim’s arm candy, at the current moment.”

Namjoon blushes fiercely at that comment, suddenly self conscious, and moves to pull away, but Yoongi suddenly digs his nails into Namjoon’s thigh _hard_ and the elder jerks his arm back down. He’d take Jackson’s teasing over Yoongi’s wrath any day.

“Gentlemen, _please_ ,” Hoseok begs, head now buried in his hands. “For once, I just thought we could be above all of this pointless _bickering_.”

“Then maybe you could kindly ask Monsieur Wang to shut his cunt,” Yoongi snaps, and the whole table falls silent.

After a moment, Jin raises his eyebrows and moves to the end of the table, removing his own gloves as he speaks. “If you cannot behave like a human being—”

“Behave like a human _being_ ?” Yoongi scoffs. “If this is the _finest_ humanity has to offer, then I’d much rather be something _else_.”

“Well, then you are welcome to leave, Monsieur Min,” Seokjin says stiffly.

“Hey, now, wait a minute—” Hoseok attempts to cut in, but is interrupted by Jackson.

“Yes, _please_ , send him _outside_ , where animals _should_ be kept,” and that’s all he gets out of his mouth before Yoongi is launching himself across the table and punching him square in the jaw.

The scene erupts into chaos, Namjoon watching in horror as Jackson retaliates and pushes Yoongi back against the table, the annoyed curses and shouts of the disturbed bar patrons serving as a fitting score to their petty wrestling. Hoseok and Seokjin scramble to pull Jackson off the younger, and Namjoon gets knocked back on his ass somewhere in the fray, a slosh of _something_ hitting the side of his jacket.

“Jackson, _stop_ !” Hoseok commands as he worms the way between the two, holding back the aforementioned with a hand to his chest. The bartender is shouting something unsavory towards the lot of them, but nobody has the mind to listen as Yoongi recovers and attempts to launch himself at the other again. “Yoongi, fucking— _no_ , cut out this nonsense right now! What’s gotten into the two of you? _Idiots!_ ”

“I refuse to stand by and let him shit all over me!” Yoongi defends, then suddenly doubles over, making a pained noise. “Fuck!”

“What?” Hoseok cries in exasperation, craning his neck to try to get a look at what might be bothering Yoongi, and when Namjoon follows his gaze his heart stops at what he sees.

“Oh my goodness, Yoongi,” he breathes, and pushes himself back up onto his feet as he stares as the injury.

“I’m _fine_ , Christ, it’s just—fuckin’ glass,” the boy curses, and releases his left arm from where he’d been hunched over it. There’s a distinct cut down the side of his forearm, and blood is streaming down it in ruby red rivulets vivid enough to send Namjoon reeling into a whirl of unpleasant memories, all missing limbs and open guts on the battlefield. “Fuckin' glass caught on me, s’all, _fuck_.”

“Taehyung, please take Yoongi outside and find someone who can tend to that for him,” Hoseok begs. “ _Jackson_ , please sit down. We need to talk. _All of us._ ”

Apparently the injury is severe enough for Yoongi to obey without question, sending his attacker one last glare before letting Taehyung lead him outside, all gentle hands and genuine concern. Namjoon watches on, desperately wanting to follow his friend and make sure he's okay, but he's afraid that one more glance at the injury might make him nauseas.

“Namjoon. Sit,” Hoseok says in a clipped voice after the two have disappeared, the rest of the bar patrons having mostly turned their attention away now that the action was apparently over. Feeling effectively chastised, the poet obeys, slumping into his seat with a pout. Jackson does the same across from him, nose bleeding sluggishly where Yoongi had clipped him.

Seokjin sits himself down on the table in front of Namjoon, and he feels like he’s about to receive a clap on his shoulder and a lecture from his father starting with _son_.

Before Jin can start, though, Jackson chimes in: “You’ve _got_ to pull yourself together, Namjoon,” and the poet’s about to lose his shit because why is _he_ being grilled if Jackson was the one that started the fight? “You’re letting yourself be led around by the nose by a—”

“ _You’re_ starting to sound a lot like my _father-in-law_ ,” Namjoon hisses across the table at him, and at that, all three other men at the table let out a deep sigh.

“Please make him see sense, Hoseok,” Jackson begs, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes tiredly.

Hoseok sends the man a level look. “You’re not off the hook either, young man,” he warns him, before returning his attention to Namjoon. The other crosses his arms, already unhappy with whatever it is Hoseok is about to say. “Namjoon,” he starts, cautiously, “you’re a good friend. And I know you’re a good man. Young Yoongi has his charms, but... you must admit, he can be rather aggressive.”

“So?”

“I do not think,” he articulates slowly, “I can allow him to continue to be present at these kinds of discussions.”

“He always _was_ too good for us,” Namjoon dismisses petulantly.

“Joon,” Hoseok says with exasperation, and Namjoon observes as Jin and Jackson groan in unison. “I am not saying I won’t consider him for publication. He’s clearly gifted. But he’s too easily provoked to sit at these gatherings with the rest of us!”

“Well, if you won’t have Yoongi Min, then you shan’t have Namjoon Kim either,” he resolves hastily, and gets a smack on the side of the head from Jin for his trouble.

“Speak sense, Namjoon!” Jin urges. “You can’t possibly abandon your colleagues for some grubby little school boy from the Ardennes!”

“I won’t abandon him just because you guys are _jealous_ and can’t handle what he has to say! _Yes_ , he’s—he’s a _handful_ , but he just wants some guidance! You can’t separate us, we’re like—”

“Two buttocks?” Jackson deadpans.

Namjoon blinks at him, unimpressed. “Au contraire,” he replies, “but an apt retort nonetheless, I suppose.” He shifts in his seat and sighs, wishing he was anywhere but where he currently was. “But the choice is yours, Hoseok. Either you take both of us, or neither of us.”

The table goes quiet as everyone looks to Hoseok, who only sighs and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Then... I suppose we’ll have to say goodbye to both of you,” he concludes. “As long as you remain attached to him, I can’t allow you to take part in these gatherings again.”

“Man up, Kim,” Jackson interrupts with crossed arms. “We’re your friends—your first critics, your true admirers! That boy should be _whipped_ , not worshipped!”

“Precisely! Next time you take your belt off to him, you should use it to teach him a—hey!” Namjoon nearly shoves Jin off the table, not amused by what he was implying, and stands, having heard enough of their judgements.

“Guess I’ll see you all later,” he grumbles, and turns to leave.

Hoseok grabs his elbow before he can escape, and Namjoon whirls around hastily. “ _What_?”

“Namjoon,” Hoseok says lowly, and his expression is softer than it had been moments before. “Tonight, I had to stand up for the group. For safety’s sake. But know that you and Yoongi both will always have a friend in me.”

Namjoon deflates at the earnestness in the other poet’s expression, nodding solemnly. “I know, Hoseok,” he affirms, and gives the man a tender peck on the cheek, before turning to leave once again.

 

♦

 

“Shit,” Yoongi swears, biting his lip as Taehyung delicately cleans around the cut stretching across his forearm. The blood washes the pale skin of his forearm in a soft shade of orange, looking deceptively like water color except for where it gushes from the main wound, pulsing sluggishly.

They’re seated on a curb directly outside the bar, huddled together against the cold. Yoongi can see their breath frosting and wonders how the younger’s fingers aren’t turning numb in the frigid air.  “Hurts like hell,” he comments.

The younger boy nods sympathetically, looking apologetic. “I know, Monsieur Min,” he says. “We’ll get it bandaged in a jiffy, worry not.”

Yoongi is quiet for a moment as he studies the other’s face. He’s handsome, all chiseled jawline and strong nose, highlighted by lighting from inside the bar. His eyebrows are furrowed as he stares down intensely at the injury, looking deeply concentrated. If Yoongi were a different person, he would have thought about kissing him.

“Yoongi,” he finally says, and Taehyung looks up at him, confused.

“Huh?”

“Call me Yoongi,” he repeats. “I’m no Monsieur. Clearly.”

Taehyung smiles and shakes his head. “You’re more so than I am,” he reasons, and returns to his diligent cleaning.

“Oh, no, you’re perfectly gentlemanly,” Yoongi reassures. “Don’t tell Namjoon, but you’re my favorite of all those guys.” It’s not a lie.

The boy laughs, boxy grin taking over his features. “Don’t tell Jin, but you’re my favorite, too!”

Yoongi chuckles, then winces as the movement irritates his cut. “Oh, ow.”

“Well, it’s as clean as it’s going to get. Let’s start with the bandages—here,” he explains, switching between the dirty, blood-stained rag he had been holding and the roll of cloth bandage he had politely asked the bartender for. Yoongi nods, tries to hold his arm still as Taehyung gets them adjusted. “Is it true you’re homosexual?”

Yoongi blinks, taken completely off-guard. “I— _what_?”

“Nevermind,” Taehyung backtracks immediately, blushing. “My apologies. That was—very rude.”

“I—no, it’s fine, I was just… surprised,” Yoongi remedies. “I, uh—what would you do if I was?”

Taehyung shrugs. “Nothing. I was just curious. I’ve never met anyone else who—” Looking mortified, he claps his hand over his mouth, looking at Yoongi with wide eyes. Yoongi blinks back, shocked. “I mean,” he tries to fix. “I’ve never met someone who’s—”

“It’s alright!” Yoongi reassures. “I, uh. I mean I’ve been with women, but. Yes.”

Taehyung blinks at him, and Yoongi tolerates it for a few moments before looking pointedly back down at his arm and clearing his throat. “Um. The bandages,” he reminds him.

“Right,” Taehyung says, still staring blankly at him, then returns to the task at hand, beginning to wrap Yoongi’s arm. “How did you know?”

The elder shrugs with his free shoulder. “I don’t know, it was straightforward for me. I was just.. very attracted to some of the other boys in my class. I knew what I was feeling. I acted on it.”

“How did that go?”

“Well, the first boy I approached nearly killed me,” he opens frankly. “I looked like a mummy for weeks. But after that first incident it got easier.”

“Huh,” Taehyung says thoughtfully as he continues to carefully wrap the injury. “I think you’re very brave, Yoongi Min,” he concludes, nodding to himself.

Yoongi smiles softly, resisting the urge to reach out and ruffle the boy’s hair. “You too, kid.”

 

♦

 

“Absinthe, two,” Namjoon orders, and Yoongi frowns across the table at him as the waiter walks away.

“Are you sure you want to be drinking right now?” he asks as he leans back, reaching into his coat pocket with his good arm to pull out his pipe.

Namjoon gives him an exhausted look, rubbing at his temple. “Why wouldn’t I,” he asks rhetorically. “I cheated on my wife last night and now I’ve been officially booted from Hoseok’s bougie little literary circle because you punched my colleague in the face. Knowing Wang and his little gossip column, half of Paris will know I’m sleeping with you by tomorrow. Might as well be a budding alcoholic.”

Yoongi frowns deeply in disapproval as he struggles to strike a match to light his pipe, wrist stinging harshly as he twists it. “Fuck,” he grunts, and Namjoon sighs, reaching out to take the match from him and light his pipe. “Thanks,” Yoongi mumbles through the bit, watching as the tobacco in the chamber begins to smoke. “Quit being so self-pitying. It’s not attractive, you know.”

“I’m not trying to look _attractive_ ,” Namjoon drawls. “Sometimes I just want to sit around and be miserable for a little while, is that a crime?”

“Well, it’s certainly not admirable,” Yoongi retaliates. “I don’t believe moping. It accomplishes nothing.”

“Uy,” Namjoon groans, rolling his eyes. “I’ve already been lectured by my elders today, the last thing I need is _you_ on my ass like this.”

“On the contrary, I think I’m _exactly_ what you need right now,” Yoongi argues. “Jungah clearly doesn’t know how to be stern with you. Or you just don’t respect her enough to listen, what do I know.”

Namjoon groans loudly, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “ _Please_ don’t bring up my wife right now,” he begs. “I don’t want to think about her and how much she—she just _doesn’t understand_. How much she doesn’t understand _us_.”

“What do you mean?” Yoongi presses, taking a thoughtful inhale of his pipe.

Namjoon sighs. “She keeps asking when I’ll send you home. I don’t know how to tell her that I really don’t plan to, that… whatever work we’re doing, it feels so much more important than some superficial Christmas celebration with a son I don’t know and in-laws that despise me.”

Yoongi’s quiet, observing the late night bar crowd. “Don’t you want to get to know your son?”

“It terrifies me,” Namjoon confesses. “I don’t know how to be a _father._ I’m barely an adult myself! It all seemed so idyllic when we were planning our futures together, but now that it’s real, it’s all so… consequential.”

“Yes,” Yoongi bites out. “You kind of made a whole new person, Namjoon. I hope you realize that.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” he says, then quiets as the waiter returns, setting down two glasses of vibrant green liquor. “I just want to drink tonight,” he confesses. “I haven’t indulged in a long time. Let me have this, just this once.”

Yoongi shrugs helplessly. “I won’t stop you,” he says, picking up his own glass and swishing the drink around, luminescent in its crystal. “But don’t blame me when you hate yourself in the morning.”

“Like that’s not _every_ morning,” Namjoon says darkly, and then sips at his apple-green poison.


End file.
